The Cutting Demon
by mogue
Summary: The team struggles to stay a step ahead of a weapons dealer when two of their own go undercover.
1. Chapter 1

**The Cutting Demon**

Rating: PG

Author's Notes: I started this back in 2001, it went on the back burner and I have recently been revisiting the M7 universe and my muse decided it was time to finish this one. HUGE thanks to my beta, Tipper. This is dedicated to Susan (SFulton229), for always saying she revisited my M7 OW fic "The Devil's Night" around Halloween. Somewhere, up there, she's at a card table...winning strip poker against the boys.

Disclaimer: Nothing owned by me (except the ATF universe, but I let everyone play in the sandbox so it doesn't matter).

...

* * *

**PART ONE**

**-March 1983, San Diego-**

"Good Evening, I'm Bree Bushaw and this is _KGTV-10 News Live at Eleven_. In our top story tonight, local police are investigating the deaths of two unidentified men whose mutilated bodies were found in a park near State Route 52.

"The Medical Examiner's office stated that the two male victims, both in their early to mid-thirties, were found around one p.m. Saturday by three tourists who were horseback riding at the Mission Trails Regional Park. Though not confirmed, an anonymous police source indicated the bodies showed signs of electrocution and possible torture, and that the deaths may be connected to recent drug and weapons trafficking activity and an on-going joint investigation between the FBI and the DEA.

"At the state capitol today…"

* * *

**...**

**-Present Day-**

**-Wednesday, morning-**

"Well, paint him yellow and call him the sun!" Buck announced, making a show of looking at his watch as Ezra walked into the bullpen. "Look who's here!" Reclined in his office chair with boot heels propped up on his desk, his exuberance flaunted the fact that he was perfectly fine with mornings. He called out to Josiah and Nathan to be witnesses, "Chris owes me a dollar."

Buck popped up from his chair and strode forward to meet Ezra as he made his way to the cluster of desks from which Team Seven operated. He fell in step beside the southerner and lightly laid a hand on the other man's forehead. "You feeling alright?"

Ezra swatted Buck's arm away and mumbled non-threateningly, "Get away from me."

The offending hand, however, entangled and inspected Ezra's wrist. "Your watch broke, pard?" Buck smiled wider as his friend pulled away. "You do know it's only 7:50, don'tcha?"

Ezra dropped his leather portfolio on his desk and slumped into his chair, not bothering to remove his wool, charcoal-colored overcoat. He addressed the young man exiting the small conference room adjacent to their team leader's office. "JD, will you collar him, please."

JD offered an apologetic wince. "I would, Ez, but I hear Buck actually likes that sort of thing."

Buck waited for his friend to pass by, and then attempted to swat the ever-present, backward newspaper boy cap from JD's head. The youth deftly ducked out of the way and Buck looked impressed. "Finally putting them quick reflexes of yours to good use."

The youngest member of Chris's team flashed a cocky grin. "Just call me 'Lightning' Dunne."

Buck eyed him with mock sincerity. "_That's_ your nickname? And all this time we've been calling you 'Lights Are On But Nobody's Home' Dunne."

Ezra took a sip from the tall, stainless steel Starbucks travel cup wrapped in his hand and sunk lower in his chair, closing his eyes. "If I didn't know better, I would honestly believe Chris schedules briefin's at this hour simply to annoy me."

From his computer, Nathan responded to the comment without bothering to look away from the document he worked on. "I'm sure that's what it is, Ezra, a personal attack against you."

The southerner replied in a sleepy voice. "Ya see, even Nathan agrees with me."

Seated at the desk facing Nathan's, Josiah glanced up. "Hell has frozen over."

The elevator at the far end of the room chimed and seconds later Chris and Vin navigated the same path Ezra had taken through the bullpen, each of them carrying a large cardboard storage box.

"Morning, ladies," Chris said. The team leader glanced down at Ezra's slumped form. "Buck, looks like I owe you a dollar."

Ezra opened his eyes just long enough to answer. "Oh, ye of little faith."

Josiah clarified, "That would be 'Oh, ye of much experience.'"

Chris smiled at the reply, his expression sliding into a mischievous grin as he hefted his records box onto Vin's. The other man buckled slightly under the added weight and shot his friend a caustic look.

"Well _my_ experience," Chris said, "tells me that I'm sure by the time I grab my coffee and get into the conference room you boys will have already gotten yourselves there." He started for the breakroom and Buck lifted a coffee mug toward him.

"Get me a refill?"

"I ain't nobody's mother."

Buck withdrew his mug and waited until Chris was farther away before muttering under his breath, "He may not be anybody's mother but for years people have been calling him a motherfu-"

Without turning around, Chris called back a warning. "Buuuuuck…"

Buck rolled his eyes in disbelief. "What's he got… _d__og_ ears?"

...

Chris slid a thick manila folder with a handful of black and white photographs in it to the middle of the conference room table. "Alright, Standish, you're about to earn those four months easy detail you just had."

The southerner looked vaguely put-out. "I thought I 'earned' those four months in the _two_before them that I logged workin' u.c. on the Stocker assignment while you all had that cush arson case in Albuquerque."

Josiah pulled a couple of photos from the dossier on the table and replied to Ezra. "Feast or famine, brother."

"I see nothin' wrong with a plague of locusts."

"Bullshit," stated Buck, "you're driving us nuts."

Vin, seated across the table from JD, Buck and Ezra confirmed the statement. "Sorry, Ez. He nailed ya. You're itchin' for 'the zone.' Ya get all twitchy."

Ezra's expression of incredulity only increased. "You make it sound like I'm…I'm some sort of…adrenaline addict. I do not get 'twitchy.' What…what is that? 'Twitchy'…what does that mean? Help me out here, Nathan."

Nathan offered an apologetic look to the man sitting diagonally from him. "_That_ is twitchy. And they're right."

"Which brings us to why we're here…." Chris gestured to the two boxes stacked on a chair behind him. Buck, seated to the right of Ezra, reached forward and spread the remaining surveillance photos from the manila folder around the table.

The moment Ezra saw one of the pictures, he leaned forward in his chair and stared at it but seemed unwilling to touch the photo. "My, my…I see we're feelin' ambitious, Mr. Larabee." The southerner's brow furrowed and he glanced at the team leader. "He's back in the country?"

"Who is 'he'?" asked Buck.

Chris answered both men in the same sentence. "Yes, he is, Ezra, and 'he', Buck, is Ian Maxwell Vargas."

Buck studied the man in the photos as Chris talked. Well-defined cheekbones, a thin nose and an angular jawline combined with gray, slicked-back hair to produce an image of harsh indifference.

"Dutch national, born 1947, his mother was American. He also goes under the names Ian Maxwell and Ian Vargaschott. Inherited the family import/export business from his father, who is said to have made the company very successful thanks to dealing with the Nazis. Vargas capitalized on those connections and used them to build the business after he took it over from his father."

"I'm hatin' this guy already," Vin said.

"It gets better," Ezra quietly drawled.

Chris continued. "He expanded into light weapons and small arms; and eventually showed up on a lot of international law enforcement radars in the '90s when he, like a lot of the lesser players in the small arms market, sucked all they could out of both the government and the guerrillas in Rwanda."

"I take it he didn't stay small," Nathan said.

"We don't get that lucky," Chris answered. "According to the FBI, his dual-citizenship has made it very difficult to keep track of him, which has made it tough to get enough evidence to build a case against him. Apparently, he's very popular with the South Koreans, the Colombians, and apparently, the entire country of El Salvador."

"What does he do," JD dryly asked, "offer a '10th Gun Free' punchcard?"

Chris didn't dismiss the question. "It's looking more like get the sixth one free. FBI started building a new case because, according to them, he's been very active since showing back up in their sights about four months ago. They've been working with the DEA, following lines between Colombia and Telluride, which brings everybody to _our_ neck of the woods."

Ezra leafed through the dossier, as if looking for something specific. He closed it with a deliberate motion and added a piece of information to Chris's summary. "He's been out of the U.S. scene since the early '80s."

Josiah eyed the southerner. "You were barely in your teens in the early '80s."

Ezra didn't look at the man seated across from him. His eyes were back on the surveillance photo he had viewed a moment earlier. With a fingertip, he slid it closer and studied the face in the grainy, enlarged picture. "The only reason I know of him is because of Academy case study. As in, what can happen if you screw up when you're under."

His brow creased briefly and he ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip. A second later he took a sip of coffee. Judging from those actions, Josiah wondered if Vargas represented some sort of boogey man for Federal u.c. agents.

JD leaned forward on the table. "What do you mean?"

With his focus still on the photograph, Ezra answered, "Long story short, around '82, '83 a couple of DEA agents out of San Diego were involved in an 18-month-long multi-agency investigation. They got careless, the case went up in smoke. Autopsies determined the pair was tortured with beatings and electrocution before being castrated and having the flesh from their backs skinned off, all while they were still alive."

Ezra's tone remained detached as he continued. "Nothin' hard linked the murders directly to Vargas but it's strongly suspected he was an _active_ participant. By the time the bodies were found he was believed to be somewhere in the Netherlands. Like Chris said, he's supposedly still quite active in Southeast China and South America but this is the first I've heard of him comin' back here."

Ezra caught the eye of the team's youngest member. "Lesson for you, JD, never under-estimate the enemy."

Nathan tapped his pen on the notepad in front of him. "So why's he back now?"

Chris shook his head. "Nobody's sure. Maybe he thinks things have cooled off enough, thinks no one will notice him."

JD shrugged and pulled his hat off to run a hand through his hair. "Maybe he's jonesin' for a decent burger."

"Hardly the best time," Vin said. "Tightened airport security, not to mention anybody with a badge is gonna be hypersensitive to any deals larger than a case of Mac 10s."

Buck tossed a paper clip harmlessly across the table in Vin's direction. "Like the saying goes, junior—Ya only catch the stupid ones."

JD pushed out a soft breath of air in reaction to his roommate's know-it-all attitude. "Newsflash, Buck, he ain't been caught yet."

Josiah folded his arms across his chest and rubbed his chin with one hand. "Has someone decided it's our job to do so?"

"Yes and no," responded Chris.

Ezra laid the photo of Ian Vargas on the table and mumbled a retort. "I hate answers like that."

Chris elaborated for his men. "The Fibbies asked if we could help and the Powers That Be said yes."

Nathan raised his eyebrows. "Was that 'we' like in _our__Bureau_ or 'we' like in _us_."

"Us," replied Chris.

Vin rolled his eyes. "C'mon Chris, ain't we got nothin' better to do than clean up the FBI's messes?" He glanced at his teammates. "I hate workin' with them uptight suits." He looked at the man seated on the other side of the table and flashed an apologetic grin. "No offense, Ez."

"None taken, I agree with your argument." The team knew any connection he still had with the FBI was solely on paper. His place was in Denver now and none of them believed otherwise.

Vin folded his arms across his chest. "Why do we gotta get involved?"

The team leader raised his brows. "Well last time I checked, Tanner, the 'F' did still stand for 'firearms'. And the territory of this task force does cover the four corners states and the Gulf region. 'Course, if I have to take on this case with a bunch of old ladies…."

Buck spoke up. "Hell, Chris, it ain't that. Communication sucks with C-A cases, you know that. How often does it go down smooth when you're working with another outfit?"

Chris shot his friend a dry look. "I don't know that _cross-agency_ has anything to do with that, Buck. Your communication is lousy when it's just _us_ working a case."

He showed a rare, sympathetic face to his men. "Look, I know all the arguments. FBI and DEA are hoping to use what they got from the case in the '80s to build something that will stick now. We're just being used for the legwork because this team has the jurisdictional freedom to move. If Vargas leaves Colorado, depending on the state he goes to, we can follow and continue to help out. We can do things faster and easier."

He lifted the file storage boxes, one at a time, from the chair to the table. "Senior Agent Tyler Desmon from the FBI's San Diego office was nice enough to assemble copies of the pertinents. I suggest you familiarize yourselves. If you have any questions, that's his card taped to the top of the boxes."

Nathan continued to tap his pen to paper in an absent fashion. "Don't suppose we've been given any information as to what's gonna constitute 'legwork'?"

"As a matter of fact," replied Chris, "Agent Desmon was very specific. They're looking for an insider. Neither FBI nor DEA have anybody—employed or informant—established in this area to set up an initial contact meeting with someone who can get us to Vargas."

Buck leaned back in his chair. "So they come running to us to pick up the slack. Nice."

A dry laugh escaped Nathan's lips. "Wait a minute, if Vargas is such a gold star, how come the FBI is willin' to share? It's more like them to just request our contacts and use their own u.c. people."

"Let's just say I made some stipulations," Chris said, showing a bit of a grin. "They may just be looking for Rent-a-Goons but I'll be damned if somebody is going to come into my territory, use resources we've worked hard to establish, and waltz out without giving us a shot at that gold star."

Ezra smiled at Chris's use of the FBI's own derogatory term for outside Bureau assistance. He raised an eyebrow. "Always the diplomat, our intrepid leader is."

Breaking from a thoughtful state, Vin offered a suggestion. "Terrence Smith may be able to get us a meet-an'- greet."

"Smitty the Weasel?" retorted Buck. "That little freak?"

Ezra, however, nodded in agreement. "I think Vin's right. While I wouldn't put it past the Weasel to sell his own mother, he _is_ afraid of us and has been a good source in the past. He's been keepin' a low profile as of late—somethin' to do with an entanglement in Salt Lake City is what I'd heard—but he is well-established in the upper echelons, as it were, of our fair region's higher-volume illegal trafficking industries."

Chris consented with a nod. "All right. Vin, see what you can put together for our Mr. Simpson, here. I'd like to be able to move on this in the next day or so." He tapped one of the two boxes on the table. "Till then, study up on Vargas, boys. He's slippery enough to have done some serious damage in the past and gotten away. The better we know him, the easier it will be to see to it that never happens again."

Nathan rose from the table first, grabbing up one box and looking to the others as he headed out. "Now don't none of ya'll be shy about comin' to grab some of this for yourselves."

Vin followed behind his tall friend. "Oooh yeah, Nate. I'll be right there. Ya'll just _wait_ for me at your desk."

Ezra spoke quietly, not pulling his eyes from the photo of Vargas that rested on the table in front of him. "So we're really goin' after him."

Chris seemed to pick up on the seriousness of his undercover man's tone. "It's not just us."

Ezra didn't look up and Chris caught the tiniest hint of a sardonic smile, a brief closing of the eyes and the nearly imperceptible shake of the southerner's head. It was a silent response, as if to say, '_Yes, of course._ _I'll be sure to keep that in mind during _my_ first meeting with Vargas.'_

Buck and JD, both now standing, seemed unaware of anything. Buck proclaimed his confidence. "Who needs the rest when you got the best!"

The two bumped fists in a bravado-charged display. JD responded to his roommate's claim as they hit.

" 'Los Siete Magnificos'!" The young man addressed Ezra, nudging the southerner's shoulder from behind. "Why're you sweatin' it, Ez? Nobody's gonna convince me you aren't one of the best."

Ezra showed a bittersweet smile, as if embarrassed and flattered by the boy's sincere belief in his talents. He answered without turning around. "JD, in this business 'the best' sometimes constitutes nothin' more than knowin' how to bullshit long enough to stay alive." He rose from the table, took up the remaining records box and nodded to Josiah and Chris. "Gentlemen."

Buck and JD followed Ezra as he left the room, but the two seemed more intent on figuring out whether to run out to Starbucks than on anything else.

Chris addressed Josiah as the large man stood and prepared to leave. "Not sure I ever recall seeing Ezra show such a reaction to a case subject."

From the first time Chris met Ezra, he had often wondered what thoughts and emotions ran behind the southerner's carefully controlled outward expressions. To someone who didn't know the undercover agent, it would not have appeared that Ian Vargas held much interest to him.

To Chris, however, Ezra had been rattled. And the group leader didn't like it. He sought insight from the member of his team most able to define the response. "Don't suppose any of your psych background can tell me what that was."

Josiah pursed his lips in a philosophical manner. "_Le Démon Taillant_..."

Chris shot back a puzzled expression and the profiler elaborated. "The Cutting Demon—a boogeyman of French folklore. Stalked those who traveled alone at night. If a man wasn't alert, the demon would leap upon him from the shadows and, with razor-sharp talons, it would cut the flesh from his bones and disembowel him in order to feed its hunger."

Chris's perplexed look hadn't changed. "I really don't get you sometimes."

Josiah smiled and seemed to take the statement as a compliment. "As a young agent, Brother Ezra was taught about the ugly things that can happen when the good guys don't keep their eyes open. And up until now, he's managed to _keep_ his eyes open, and his skin intact. Now he's just been told to go put himself smack in front of the devil's claws. Talk about facing one's demons."

Josiah drifted from the room, leaving only a string of Latin hanging in the void. "_Libera nos a malo_."

Chris didn't need a translation, having heard it before. '_Deliver us from evil.'_

* * *

_If you like it be sure to review, tell your friends, and tip your waitstaff!_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: Thank you all for the "welcome back" encouragement.

…

**PART TWO**

**-Friday, evening-**

"Smittyyy…."

The last vowel of the name rose in pitch as Ezra showed his disapproval of Terrance Smith's idea. The informant had ignored instructions for the type of deal he had been told to arrange and took the initiative to organize a "special offer" for arms dealer Ezra Simpson.

The southerner glanced at Vin, who stood beside him on the dark downtown street. The crisp evening air didn't appear to faze the Texan and he calmly listened as Ezra addressed him. "Tell me I didn't hear him correctly."

"Ya heard right, Ez," drawled Vin.

Ezra turned his gaze once more on Smith, clearly about to protest, but the wiry thirty-something in the leather Broncos jacket spoke first.

"C'mon, Ez, buddy—ow!" Smith rubbed the side of his close-cropped, bleached-blond head where Ezra had smacked him with an open hand.

"Don't call me that." Ezra's tone was on the lighter side, but he made it clear he was serious. "Don't ever call me that. There are only a handful of individuals whom I allow to use that particular familiarity. _Y__ou_ are not one of them." The southerner flashed a wide smile. "You may use Ezra or Mr. Simpson. That is all."

"All right, all right… jeez. Look, _Ezra_, the only reason I told Artie you'd go for the deal is because it's sweet! Sweet like meat, sweet like butta', sweet like your mutha'." He flinched as he saw Ezra's open palm again. "Hey! Okay, sorry, sorry…." Smith pulled an unseen piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue and took another drag from the unfiltered Lucky Strike in his right hand. He tried again to convince the ATF agents that they didn't really want what they had originally asked him for—to set up a deal for one hundred AK-47s.

"C'mon, I'm telling you, if you want to get in good with Artie's boss this is the way to do it. I told Artie you do most of your business south of the border, and he knows you're not some blue-light special who only gets what's fast and easy, but c'mon, _anybody_ can buy a hundred AKs."

Ezra used this opportunity to reiterate his stand on the idea of a "mystery buy". "Yes, Smitty, and any _idiot_ can go into a deal not _k__nowin'_ what's goin' to be there!" He looked to Vin. "Correct me if I'm mistaken, Mr. Travers, but this certainly screams 'blue-light chump' to me."

Smith jumped in. "Now wait, wait… Artie told me the shit Vargas has is top-notch hot. Definitely not something you're gonna be able to pick up anywhere. He said if you have clients looking for autos, they'll piss themselves over what his boss got his hands on. And like I said—same quantity of one hundred pieces, with ammo, and it's yours for just over a hundred G's."

Smith received only impassive stares from both ATF agents but he kept on with his sales pitch.

"Look at it this way…what's more impressive? The guy who takes the last base model F430 on the Ferrari dealer's lot… oooorr, the dude who shows up at the dealership and says, 'I've got a party to go to, give me something to match my lady's dress'. You buy into this deal and it's gonna show you're a big dog. Make this deal with Artie and he _will _get you to Ian Vargas."

Ezra again felt the urge to smack The Weasel but pointed over the man's shoulder instead. "Go do somethin' over there."

Smith sighed in an exasperated fashion yet did as he was told.

Ezra looked to Vin but the Texan spoke first. "My gut's tellin' me the same thing yours is tellin' you."

"And that would be how easily Smitty's murder could be made to look like an accident?"

Vin showed a small grin. "The point he was tryin' to make about the Ferrari is right, pard. It'd show you got enough capital to buy somethin' outta the ordinary, and the right connections to move the stuff once ya got it, no matter what 'it' is."

Ezra sighed. "I know. I'd come to the same conclusion." He ran a hand through his hair. "Apparently my 'gut' has wrestled my brain to the ground and incapacitated it. I do believe this is the way to go."

Vin shrugged. "If it makes ya feel any better, so do I."

" '…And the ship of fools broke all the rules and sailed merrily along…' " Ezra wrapped his hands tightly in a ball and breathed on them to instill some warmth. "But _you_have to tell Chris about this… He likes you better."

"Nah," corrected Vin, "I just irritate him less."

Ezra signaled for their paid informant to return, and then addressed the man in a less-than-delighted tone. "Tell this 'Artie' of yours, I'm interested."

Smith grinned, showing a row of cigarette-stained, uneven teeth.

"But," added Ezra, "you tell him I will call you tomorrow afternoon with my final decision. Now go away before I find a reason to hit you again."

Smith backed away, making a show of bowing as he left. Ezra glanced at Vin. "At least the phone call will let me back out if the powers-that-be slap us down. And I'm sayin' now—it will be a sanctified miracle if I get the okay for the buy-money on this. One hundred thousand…good Lord."

"The Fibbies are the ones leading this hunt for Vargas, just get it from them."

Ezra let out a small groan. He was so used to dealing just with his own bosses he had honestly forgotten to consider whether the other agencies involved with the Vargas operation would back his decision. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. "I will be a _laughin'_ stock if this brilliant idea doesn't play out well."

"I wouldn't worry about it, Ez. I don't think your reputation could sink any lower at the FBI."

Ezra fixed his partner with a sideways glance. "That's not funny, Mr. Tanner."

Vin smiled and slung his arm over the southerner's shoulders as they walked back to Ezra's Jaguar. "You're secure with us, pard."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better." Ezra shook his head in a defeated manner. "I am actually listenin' to Smitty the Weasel. What's next… fashion advice from Buck?"

…

**-Sunday, morning-**

Team Seven knew first meets were traditionally lower-level buys. It established the validity and capability of all parties concerned, while involving as little risk as possible. The ante, however, was always relative; and in the circles Ian Vargas played in, the buy-in was big. The agencies had pooled their resources and Larabee's team had acquired the hundred thousand dollars. Now they just had to discover what they were buying.

The usual traffic of a work week was non-existent on Sunday morning, especially around the warehouses in the Capitol Hill neighborhood on Denver's east side. The ATF had gained permission to use a metal-cutting machine shop next to the building where Ezra's meet was to take place— KLK Automobile Parts, an import/export company suspected of being a front for money-laundering.

Seated in his Jaguar in front of KLK, Ezra listened on his Nokia for further instructions from JD. Unlike the rest of his teammates, Ezra had no audio available to him so he and JD tested the wireless microphone with assistance from the cell phone.

JD perched on a small stool in a weather-beaten Econoline van that, from the outside, completely belied the advanced technology it housed. The vehicle was parked two blocks from the warehouse and looked like little more than a drifter's home. The distance gave the team more than enough coverage for the wireless equipment's range yet allowed them to be far away enough from the meeting point so as not to attract attention.

In the van, Buck sat in the driver's seat, while Chris took the passenger's. Nathan squeezed his considerable height by the back doors on a retro-fitted fold-down stool.

Vin and Josiah each had elevated locations. As scout and emergency tactical backup, Vin sat on the roof of the KLK warehouse. Josiah served as photo surveillance on the second floor of the machine shop. It was a vantage point that afforded him a near-perfect view through a wide panel of windows down to much of the main floor of the meeting place across the alley.

JD adjusted his lightweight headset and tilted the microphone away from his mouth. He entered a series of numbers into the computer in front of him, speaking aloud to himself as he typed. "165.9125, o-fish-al ATF F5 surveillance frequency… oh, come on."

The young agent maneuvered his mouse for a few clicks and complained to nobody in particular. "Whatever happened to building warehouses out of wood?" He glanced at Chris, "Seems like we're gonna have some path loss; the dBs are already lower than what I can usually get at this distance."

"Just do your best, JD," Chris answered. He often let a lot of JD's shop talk roll past; the kid had a habit of talking out technical issues to whoever was closest. He did not seem to expect answers from them; it was more like he used them as a sounding board until his brain delivered the solution.

JD focused again on his computer. "All this metal framework gives me a crapload of interference… oh, hang on… am I getting it from your phone?"

"Well, JD," Ezra answered, "I'd say that's somethin' _you _need to determine. I don't have any other form of hearin' to do a mic check with you… unless you'd like to shout out your window at me." His response filtered through the van via its open audio system, while Vin and Josiah picked it up on wireless headsets.

JD ignored him and re-fed numbers into the shielded computer. "Let's try this."

Ezra let JD continue to talk to himself. He glanced down at the geometric pattern on his silk tie and maneuvered the Sony lavalier tie clip mic, ensuring that it was not only firmly attached to the fabric but that it would appear as a natural accessory to his wardrobe. The Vega body-pack transmitter clipped to his belt seemed to be nothing more than the pager it was designed to mimic.

JD's voice came at Ezra through the cell phone. "Okay, say something again."

"I am the very model of a modern major general."

The southerner's casual accent slurred together some of the syllables, prompting Josiah to speak up. "Isn't that supposed to be 'general'?"

"That's what I said," retorted Ezra, overhearing the critique on his cell as it fed to the van.

Buck spoke up, knowing his comments would be sent out via the sensitive microphone on the headset JD wore. "No pard, you said gen'rull. Josiah's saying it should be gen-er-al."

Ezra rolled his eyes. "Well, the day I perform Gilbert and Sullivan I'll be sure to enunciate all the syllables. But currently, I am not hearin' a difference."

There was no bite in his tone and Buck knew Ezra easily tossed off the harassment. It certainly wasn't the first time his teammates had messed with him over his deep southern accent. "JD," Ezra added, "you may wish to recheck communications on your end. Buck and Josiah are havin' difficulty receivin' me properly."

In the passenger's seat, Chris let the banter play out, even tossing in a jab of his own. "No, Ezra, there's no problem receiving, 'cause I'm hearing an awful lot of unnecessary chatter."

Ezra quietly drawled a response. "Josiah started it."

Up on the roof of the warehouse, Vin smiled. When in a sniper position, he unconsciously dropped into a subdued mode, communicating only when he deemed it necessary. He was glad to hear his teammates' frivolity, however; especially Ezra, who had been uncommonly tense over the past few days. Perhaps whatever had been worrying the man had finally passed.

Nathan cut in to the conversation. "Shame on ya'll, gettin' Ezra into trouble like that."

Buck answered, speaking loud enough for those on the monitoring channel to hear. "Well _you're_ talking now, Nate. Ain't you afraid of Chris?"

JD answered instead. "Nah, he's only afraid of Rain."

Ezra abruptly changed the subject. "Speakin' of that fair flower, what day is it that she wants us all over to your place for supper?"

"Saturday," replied Nathan, while leaning over JD's shoulder so the boy's mic picked up his answer. "There'll be a few of our neighbors and Rain's cousin will be in town. And Lord, when those two girls get to cookin' it's as good as a Sunday boil. B'sides, Rainey says she ain't seen ya'll in awhile. So missin' this feed is gonna equal big, big trouble."

Ezra smiled at the thought of getting together with his makeshift family. It was a complete antithesis to the world of ugliness and greed he dealt with in his job. And that was not exclusive to being undercover; memories of his last year in Atlanta still pained him.

The idea of being with people who not only had no desire to manipulate him for their own agenda, but actively shielded him from those who might, well, it still sometimes confused the southerner. That didn't mean, of course, he was above harassing those friends.

"What's that, Mr. Jackson?" he queried lightly. "Did you just say that Rain equals big, big trouble? That is very ungentlemanly."

"That's not what I-"

Josiah interrupted. "By 'big' are you suggesting Rain is getting a little heavy around the bottom,? I'd say comments like that will get _you_ in trouble, Nathan."

JD piped in. "Nate, you oughta be ashamed…."

Buck finished his roommate's sentence. "…saying Rain is big, big trouble."

Vin's voice broke in. "Hold up, fellas. I think we got our boy."

The chatter instantly ceased and the team waited for Vin to elaborate. "White delivery van comin' from the north off of Colfax. Judgin' from the look of the rear tires, it's carryin' a decent payload."

Ezra took advantage of the silence that followed. "We good, JD?"

"Good to go, Ez. Vin? Last ups?"

"Catcher out, Homebase."

"Roger, that," answered JD. "Left field?"

"Left field, out," said Josiah.

"Roger, that. Homebase, over and out."

In the Jaguar, Ezra disconnected the call and slipped the phone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His teammates had come to refer to the undercover man's minutes before a meeting as "the zone". Take one full breath, let it out, close the eyes, deeply inhale and exhale again, open eyes and with deadly seriousness fix on an invisible point somewhere - and the criminal Ezra Simpson came to life. Adrenaline primed, senses lifted to a heightened alert.

On several occasions, when Ezra hadn't been around, his teammates had compared notes on the odd ritual, commenting on the hard-edged energy that seemed palpable after the green eyes flashed open. Casual jokes brushed over the underlying solemnity. In JD's words – it kinda creeped 'em out. Yet the professionalism the undercover man displayed during his meetings was just another reason why his teammates respected him as both a colleague and a friend.

And that air of authority was once more plainly visible in every polished, efficient, unhurried movement with which Ezra Simpson retrieved the two black leather cases from the backseat of his Jaguar, clicked the automatic lock-and-alarm feature for the vehicle and calmly made his way around to the back of the warehouse.

…

The "meet and greet" with Ian Vargas's first line of defense was going very smoothly. Arthur Pentilide had pulled his van into the back of the warehouse, secured the bay door behind him, and proceeded to offer Ezra Simpson a remarkable stock of information and weapons.

"I have to say, Ezra, we were impressed when Smitty told us you were willing to consider this offer."

"I'm a man who believes in stayin' open to possibilities."

Ezra's first impression of Arthur was a short version of Ichabod Crane. Bony features, thinning hair, pronounced nose – like a private school English teacher who illegally sold weapon caches during summer break. He radiated an air of being uncomfortable in his own skin. Arthur was knowledgeable, there was no denying that; but it couldn't suppress Ezra's feeling that the man was "not quite right".

"My employer likes to maintain a well-rounded supply of merchandise," Arthur said. "TEC-9s, AKs, AR-15s – the usual, they're all available. However, Smitty led us to believe you are capable of handling things beyond the usual."

Arthur swung open the back doors of the windowless van, dragged one three-foot by two-foot box to the edge of the vehicle's payload floor and let his customer view the merchandise. Ezra later mentally congratulated himself for not letting his mouth fall open. The pieces were difficult to come by outside of legal channels.

"BW-5s," he stated out loud, while allowing enough of a hint of being impressed into his voice to get Arthur to puff up a bit.

Arthur smiled. "Considered one of the best PDWs available for close-quarter situations."

Ezra nodded. The Federal agent side of him knew the fully-automatic version of the personal defense weapon was the primary firearm used by the FBI's Hostage Rescue teams and SWAT Units. He hoisted one from the crate and inspected it while rattling off details. "Delayed blowback operation, roller lock bolt system… I'm quite familiar with them."

After inspecting the last box of merchandise Ezra reiterated the deal. "Quantity one hundred, and the optional thirty-round magazine is included?"

"It's standard from us. You'd never find these for less than $1300 a piece, so even with the amount of ammunition we discussed you know you're getting a very fair deal. If you like everything you see, we can also talk about semi-to-full conversion kits. _And…_" Arthur dug into one of the open boxes and pulled out a softcover booklet. "Comes complete with manual."

Ezra couldn't help but laugh. He was about to purchase what was most likely a completely intact stolen shipment. The competitive voice in his head was already gloating over how sweet it would be for Team Seven to brush the FBI and DEA aside and nail not only Vargas but whomever his corrupt connection was as well.

"Mr. Pentilide, if I didn't know better I'd think these fell directly out of the delivery truck and were innocently found in the middle of the street."

"Stranger things have happened, Mr. Simpson."

For all of Ezra's concern over the amount of money required for the buy, it had been less difficult to attain than he'd imagined. Split between three agencies, the $110,000 for weapons and ammunition came together with a minimal amount of red tape. And for someone who earned a Federal Agent's wage, Ezra was rather surprised at how easy it felt to hand over.

He rested the two black leather cases on a nearby table labeled as "Shipping and Receiving" by a casually scrawled cardboard sign, and withdrew his cell. "My associate is within a few minutes of here awaiting my call," he explained to Arthur. "We'll move things from your van to ours and we can all leave very happy men. Oh, and I have your number, you have mine…I _am_ interested in those conversion kits. You should be hearin' from me within the week."

Arthur pulled up the rolling metal doors of the receiving bay and squinted at the light from the early morning sun. "Mr. Vargas and I look forward to your call."

Ezra knew the rest was easy. He would dial Nate's number, wait for him to arrive in the second van that the team had checked out, and once the twenty boxes were transferred, Team Seven would officially have their foot in Ian Vargas's door.

The large bay door hit its top brackets with a loud clang and the room exploded with an additional unexpected noise.

"Denver Police! Don't move! Do not move!"

"Denver Police Department! Put your hands on your head! Hands on your head NOW!"

Ezra spun toward the two voices, his eyes wide, the cell phone in his hand undialed and forgotten. Two heavy-set men in street clothes leveled 9 mm handguns at Ezra and Arthur and continued to shout commands as they bore down on their targets.

The Glock 19S a few feet from Ezra's chest encouraged the southerner to lace his fingers behind his head, albeit awkwardly, as he still maintained an unconscious grip on his phone. A man in his mid-forties with thinning hair wielded the Glock with obvious professionalism. He shouted again and Ezra slowly moved to comply with the orders.

"On the ground! Face down! Keep your hands on your head!"

Lying on his stomach on the cold cement, Ezra felt his phone pulled from his grip and heard a distinct plastic clatter as it skittered across the floor. A strong hand slapped at his sides and flipped the right edge of his suit jacket up as it found what it was looking for. Pulling the undercover agent's SIG Pro 2340 from the soft holster at his right hip, the big man addressed him again.

"What's this? Does your mom know you have this?"

Ezra could only see the white Reeboks and blue denim pant legs of the plain-clothes officer who patted him down. The rough search continued until it struck home twice more and he was relieved of the Walther P-99 at the small of his back and his ankle-holstered Taurus .38.

"Jesus, this guy is like a clown car, I just keep pulling more shit out!"

Ezra was baffled. The surprise of the bust forced from him a furious vocalization. "What the fuck is goin' on!"

"It's a bust, genius. You're doing something illegal, we're busting you."

Ezra's confusion only added to his disorientation. With his fingers still laced behind his head, he risked a glance upward. "What?" he blurted.

The officer looked at his partner, a blond, muscular man in his early-40s. "Damn, I knew southerners were slow but this guy is a regular Jed Clampett."

With quick confidence, the policeman holstered his weapon, grabbed Ezra's left wrist and twisted the arm behind Ezra's back. A hand on his prisoner's right shoulder helped him haul the smaller man to his feet in one strong motion.

A sharp pain lanced through Ezra's left shoulder; he gasped and struggled to gain solid footing. He'd dislocated the shoulder in the past and was not eager to repeat the experience. Though desperate not to blow his cover with Arthur, Ezra hoped to grasp some piece of understanding as to how Denver PD had found out about this deal, and why they were interfering. He glanced over his shoulder and quietly hissed to the officer. "Who _are_ you?"

The man stared at the southerner with an incredulous expression. "I'm sorry, maybe my partner and I weren't clear enough when we were shouting Denver Police Department."

In an instant, the officer tightened his grip on Ezra and slammed him face-first against the white van. The southerner's left cheekbone made hard contact with the cold metal and his breath escaped in a rush as reverberations rattled through his skull.

He winced when the hold on him shifted. His left hand, pulled up between his shoulder blades, was now being twisted downward at a painful angle while his left shoulder protested under the strain it bore. It was a very effective subduing hold; one which Ezra had used on suspects.

A billfold housing a gold badge and identification flashed in his face and the southerner just caught the last name of Dorison on the ID.

"I'm Detective One and he's Detective Two and we're your worst fuckin' nightmare, Jed. We're the ones arresting you for illegal purchase of firearms."

Dorison's partner, standing behind the van over the prone form of Arthur, made a show of looking in the vehicle. "Lots of firearms."

Ezra's guard pushed him hard against the van once more. "A felony shitload of firearms. That's felony, as in, serious prison time. Oooh, they're gonna love a pretty thing like you inside."

Cold metal clamped around the undercover agent's left wrist and he was deftly secured into a pair of handcuffs.


	3. Chapter 3

**PART THREE**

Author's notes: Good length for the chapters? Too long? Character voices accurate? Feel free to let me know. Also love to hear if anyone has favorite lines (I always wonder if readers like the same lines that the writers like.)

…

In the ATF surveillance van nearly two blocks from the import/export company, Special Agent In Charge Larabee was, like the rest of his team, wondering what the hell was going on. Nathan had been about to get the second van, while expecting Ezra's call, when something happened that was _not_ in the game plan.

"Denver PD?" spat Chris. "What the fuck?"

JD's headset was overloaded with edgy voices as both Josiah and Vin echoed Chris's confusion.

"Who are these guys?"

"What the hell's goin' on?"

JD silenced them. "SHUT UP! Everybody, quiet! I can't hear anything!"

The young agent anticipated his leader's needs and questions and barked directions via his headset mic. "Josiah… what do you see? Gimme something."

A deep voice flowed into the van through the surveillance equipment's audio system. "I'm just seeing two. Plain clothes. One with Ezra on the west side of the van, the other with our seller on the south side, directly behind the van."

Chris was out of the passenger seat in half a second and leaning over JD's shoulder. "Josiah, tell me you're-"

"I'm getting it, Chris."

From his vantage point, Josiah snapped frame after frame, documenting what was going on inside. He winced as the police officer standing over Ezra hauled the undercover agent to his feet and slammed him face-first against the side of the van.

JD, the only one in the Econoline utilizing headphones, instantly got an earful of loud disturbance and static as the mic was smashed between Ezra's chest and the metal body of the vehicle in the warehouse. "Jeez! What the hell was that!"

Josiah elaborated vaguely. "These boys take the term 'Police Force' a bit too seriously."

Every member of Team Seven knew what he meant. Buck thought Chris was going to stop to the operation right then. The senior agent wasn't above using a little force on a suspect, but when someone played rough with _his_ agent they had better hope like hell they were not within striking distance of the team leader.

JD pressed the left side of his earphones tighter against his ear. "Uh-oh."

From the driver seat, Buck glanced at his roommate. "What's up?"

"I'm still getting static; I may be losing the feed. That mic isn't meant for hard wear-and-tear. Ezra's usually more careful."

Buck answered quietly. "I'm thinking it ain't up to him, kid."

…

Ezra was furious. The warm ache spreading across his left cheekbone clarified his suspicion that a bruise would be visible within the hour. He didn't know who these two clueless rubes were but he planned on bringing every bit of Federal supremacy down on the local idiots as soon as the opportunity arose.

The officer that Ezra now knew as Dorison spun him around, backed up and pointed a finger at the southerner while barking an order. "Siddown! Don't even fuckin' think about moving."

With his wrists painfully cuffed behind his back, Ezra slid down the side of the van and maneuvered into a sitting position on the cold concrete floor. He waited until the detective joined the other officer before whispering sharply to his teammates via the tie clip microphone. Although he couldn't hear them, he answered the questions he knew they were asking. He could at least give them information he had glimpsed from the flashed ID.

"One is named Dorison. No – I _don't_ know what's goin' on, but we are _holdin'_... is that understood?! If I still have a shot at gettin' to Vargas I'm not goin' to lose it. Is that clear? I am _not_ losin' this connection."

…

In response to the nearly unintelligible order from Ezra over the sketchy feed, Chris slammed out his frustrations with a palm to the van's metal wall. He was still leaning over JD's shoulder and the young man started at the unexpected action. The cramped quarters did nothing to alleviate the tension and Buck could tell Chris was about two seconds away from overriding Ezra's request.

Buck offered a voice of reason. "Chris, he's in there. Trust him to make the call."

…

A moment later Ezra fixed a cold stare on the detective looking down at him. Dorison addressed the southerner in a sarcastic tone. "_Ya'll_ don't sound like you're from around here."

Ezra maintained his hard look as Dorison leaned over and patted the front of his prisoner's suit jacket until he located what he sought. Pulling a thin leather wallet from the left inside pocket he flipped it open. "Where're you from?"

"Chicago," Ezra drawled, adding with acerbic venom. "The _south_ side."

"Ezra Simpson." Dorison's brow wrinkled as he glanced over the driver's license in the billfold. "What the hell kind of name is Ezra?"

His partner called from the far corner of the van where he stood with his own prisoner. "You know, Mike, like Ezra Brooks, the whiskey."

"Oh yeah, I've had that stuff before." Dorison roughly stuffed the wallet back into the pocket he had confiscated it from. He also used the opportunity to grab two fistfuls of Ezra's suit jacket and drag him to his feet. "Well, Ezra, what's say you and me take a ride. You got this end of things, Carl?"

"No problem, man. See ya in a bit."

Mike Dorison guided his prisoner outside to an unmarked, gray Ford Police Interceptor and secured him in the back seat.

…

"What is goin' on?" muttered Nathan from his back corner of the surveillance van. "Have these guys done _anything_ by the book yet?"

Vin's voice updated the team on what he observed with binoculars from his high vantage point. "Gray, police-issue Ford, plate number 68457Charlie, headin' west on Fourteenth. Seller's van now exitin' the buildin' and followin'."

JD copied down the tag numbers as Vin read them off, but the young man's focus was divided as he worked the receiver board in an attempt to maintain an audio lock on Ezra. "I'm gonna lose him," he said.

Buck was now crouched behind JD and patted his friend on the back. "It's alright, kid-"

Chris interrupted. "Nate, get the other van! Follow us."

Nathan opened the Econoline's back doors to comply as their leader slid into the empty driver's seat. When his hand did not find the keys in the ignition, he looked over his shoulder and barked out another demand. "Buck, where are the keys?"

"Now just hold up a minute, stud-"

"Buck!"

"Damn it, Chris, I mean it!" Buck met his friend's hard stare. "We go tearin' after them right now and between their car, Pentilide's van, _our_ two vehicles and one of us in Ezra's Jag we're gonna look like the goddamn Macy's Parade."

Softening his voice, Buck continued. "Give JD ten minutes, he'll find out what district these guys are out of. We'll go see their CO and get this straightened out. He's just being arrested. He can handle it." But he wasn't sure Chris was convinced so he continued. "A couple of gung-ho assholes fucked up. It ain't the first time in history."

Buck knew his friend's anger stemmed from concern for their teammate. "Ezra's fine. Prob'ly madder than a bald dog, but he's fine." He showed a hint of a grin. "Hell, he'll most likely have _himself_ talked out of this by the time we get there and still won't have blown his cover." He slid open the Econoline's side door and nodded toward the quiet street. "Go cool your heels… go on. Back in ten, JD will have something for ya."

Chris radiated fury but said nothing and acquiesced to Buck's order. After Chris stepped from the van JD looked up from his computer and addressed his roommate. "Bald dog?"

Buck attempted a sagely expression and, as he exited the vehicle himself, answered the younger agent. "You're from Boston, kid, you wouldn't understand."

From the direction of the warehouse, Vin jogged at a solid pace to meet them, soft-sided rifle case over one shoulder. Chris's body language tensed. The team leader's anger sought an outlet, and as Vin approached, it found a target.

"Where were ya, cowboy?" Chris questioned.

Vin was just as infuriated with himself for not seeing the detectives' vehicle approach the warehouse when Ezra was inside. "I missed 'em rollin' up," he confessed angrily. "I know."

"You 'missed them'? A shitload of good that does Ezra."

The sharpshooter bit back. "Well 'scuse me for not expectin' anybody else."

"That's one of the reasonsyou were up there!"

"I was in the middle of the fuckin' roof just a _little_ focused on what was goin' on inside! 'Sides, what could we a' done, Chris?" Vin retorted. "Busted in and asked 'em real nice not to arrest our undercover agent?"

The two men briefly stared at each other before Vin exhaled and shook his head. With a hand, he swept back strands of hair that had escaped from his ponytail and looked again at Chris. He felt the same fear and frustration as his leader; they were just taking it out on one another. Wordlessly, they each acknowledged apology and acceptance.

Chris walked past Vin and briefly rested a hand on his shoulder before heading out for the breather Buck had pushed him towards.

…

"There aren't any police stations in this direction." Ezra's tone was laced with suspicion. Seated in the back of the unmarked car, he had watched the scenery of the neighborhood go by in the ten minutes since he and Dorison left the warehouse. The detective offered no reply other than to glance at him in the rearview mirror with just a hint of a derisive smile.

Ezra maintained a casual, indifferent expression but went through a myriad of thoughts while he tried to calm his beating heart. "_My God, they're with Vargas. I'm a dead man...Then why the fake bust? Arthur picked the location. They could have just come in and taken what they wanted—a good old-fashioned robbery... Maybe they knew the team was out there… Wise up, Standish, they wouldn't have pulled this ludicrous stunt if they'd known the team was there."_

Dorison anticipated the other man's thoughts. "Relax, there, _Ezra_." The detective put hard emphasis on his prisoner's name. "This isn't one of those 'long trip off a short pier' kind of rides. Today is deal-making day for you. Your friend Artie wants your help and he asked us to set up a little interruption this morning to find out how you'd feel about a side project."

"So you're not arresting me?"

"Oh, I can if you're not interested in helping. I can tuck some blow in your pocket right now and bring you down to the station. But I don't think either of us want that hassle."

Ezra was taken aback by how casually the detective offered to frame him. "I'm listenin'."

"Good. See, a few months ago we caught ol' Artie doing something he wasn't supposed to, but he made it worth our while not to bust his sad ass. He told us about a pretty smart plan to get a helluva lot of money away from his boss; we just needed a third party."

Dorison focused his attention again on Ezra via the mirror. "And it looks like you're the lucky contestant. How 'bout that, _Ezra_? What do you think about making the deal of a lifetime?"

The southerner made a show of shifting against the awkward pain of the handcuffs securing his wrists behind his back. "I'm suspectin' it may be more like an offer I can't refuse. Exactly what role would I be playin' if I take part in this 'pretty smart plan'?"

"You're already playing it. Our buddy Arthur said his boss is looking for a high stakes player for a major shipment. His boss is getting a little desperate 'cuz that payload is coming within the next five days and the buyer he had on the line backed out."

Ezra wondered how the FBI missed the information about the other buyer. _Vargas really _does_ run fast and tight._

"Arthur's boss can't afford to be stuck with that much inventory so he's eager to find somebody who can handle it." The detective glanced over his shoulder. "This morning you showed you could be just that man."

Ezra stared impassively at Dorison. "Funny, I thought this mornin' I'd been screwed over by a greedy underling and his lackeys." The impertinence didn't seem to disturb Dorison, he just smiled in reaction to the accusation. Ezra continued. "And what exactly constitutes a 'major shipment'?"

Dorison hesitated, as if he wasn't sure how wise it was to offer up information to someone who had yet to buy into his deal. "2,000 AK-47s, fully automatic, with about 4,000 thirty to forty-round mags of ammo. Straight off the Empress Phoenix from the PRC."

Ezra's poker face served him well. He revealed nothing as he silently calculated the figures and came to the conclusion that the shipment from the People's Republic of China would have an approximate street value of over four million dollars. Arching his brows, he replied to the detective. "Even if that was somethin' I was interested in, what's the catch?"

An avaricious smile played at the corner of Dorison's mouth. "That's the beauty part; all you need to do is bring the funds and buy the guns. You walk away."

Ezra breathed a dry laugh. "And let me guess, shortly thereafter you, your partner and Mr. Pentilide benefit from a considerable donation from his boss's estate." The undercover agent casually pressed for more information. "Though I can't help but wonder if it's to be a donation or an _inheritance_."

Dorison seemed to know what the other man was fishing for. He paused a few seconds before answering. "Just because Vargas will be forever outta the picture after the deal goes down doesn't mean you can go getting all cocky."

The detective fixed his eyes on the road and allowed his prisoner a moment to consider the option he had been given. Ezra felt like he had fallen into a pit only to discover buried treasure. He silently added busting two dirty cops onto his list of Team Seven accomplishments for the month. He addressed Dorison once more.

"And what insurance, exactly, would I have that you and your partner would not again interfere in any of my future business dealin's?"

Dorison laughed. "Well, _Ezra_, there isn't any, except for maybe the distance between here and the Cayman Islands."

Ezra immediately picked up on the detective's meaning. "I have always believed that not enough people retire early." They drove in silence for a moment before Ezra continued. "And all I have to do is conduct business-as-usual with Arthur?"

"He'll talk you up to his boss. You'll be contacted." Dorison glanced at his prisoner in the rearview mirror. "But don't be bullshitting me, Simpson, this isn't some fifty-cent pussy deal. You probably have less than a week. You can lay your hands on the money?"

Ezra showed a wily smile. "I'm a businessman, Detective; it's my job to raise capital."

…

The team waited in silence for Chris to return, each lost in their own thoughts. Nathan had brought around the van they had planned to use to transport the weapons after Ezra completed his deal with Arthur. He sat in the driver's seat with the door open and his long legs stretched toward the pavement.

Vin paced a vague triangular pattern while his fingers nervously fiddled with the Jaguar's spare keys. After an unfortunate incident with a suspect's pet pot-bellied pig, Ezra insisted on keeping a spare alarm fob and valet key in any surveillance vehicle the team used when he was undercover.

Buck wore a broad smile as the Team Seven leader approached. "We got 'em, Chris. They're out of the Sixth District. JD already put a call in to their CO."

JD finished his roommate's thought and consulted the names scribbled on the piece of paper in his hand. "Detectives Michael Dorison and Carl Hilliard."

…

Ezra's left shoulder protested even as the handcuffs that bound his wrists behind his back were unlocked. Dorison had pulled over in the gravel parking lot of a construction site, released his prisoner and even returned the southerner's handguns, albeit, sans ammunition. Withdrawing Ezra's cell phone from his pocket, Dorison handed it over along with a small padlock key attached to a dull orange plastic tag.

"The address of the storage unit place is on the tag. Your… purchases from this morning will be there."

Ezra glanced around at his empty surroundings. "Door-to-abandoned lot service?" he drawled sarcastically.

The other man got into his car, answering as he pulled the door closed. "You got a phone… call yourself a cab."

The Interceptor's door slammed shut and Ezra muttered a promise as he watched the vehicle drive away. "And a few days from now _you'll_ be callin' yourself a lawyer, you ill-bred boar."

He pressed the power button of his phone but cursed softly at the lack of lighted display. Turning it over he noted the large, visible crack across the battery case that made it apparent it wasn't healthy for cell phones to be tossed across cement floors.

Dropping the phone and padlock key into the pocket of his suit jacket, he pointed himself westward and prayed he'd see a cab sometime before he reached the Federal Building.


	4. Chapter 4

**PART FOUR**

Author's notes: I have a couple of chapters that are more character driven than action driven, but I promise, stick with me 'cause once things ramp up I'm pretty sure you'll like it.

...

The diagonally-positioned "Police Vehicle Only" parking spaces looked like they were filled with anything but law enforcement automobiles. In front of the Sixth District station house was a non-descript delivery van, a black Jaguar XJS, and a beat-to-hell Econoline.

Josiah and Nathan stood on the sidewalk beside Chris and Buck. In the passenger seat of the Econoline, JD rested his folded arms on the frame of the open window, listening. Vin had backed the Jaguar in and leaned against the trunk, close to the others. Each of them knew they didn't all need to be there, but until they determined the status of their teammate none of them would head back to the office.

Chris looked to the tall man beside him. "Let's go, Buck. Everybody else hang tight. It's not going to do much for Ezra's cover if we all go jumping in there like gangbusters."

"But," JD replied, "we _are_ Gangbusters." The remark was half-sincere, half-joking. He knew the mood Chris was in, but that didn't stop the comment from coming out. Chris stared humorlessly at the young agent. JD's first thought was that the team leader didn't catch the play on words.

"You know…Elliot Ness….Gangbusters…." The flat expression was still the only response JD received. He nodded. "We'll just hang here."

Chris pivoted on his boot heel and headed for the station house. Rolling his eyes, Buck smacked his roommate upside the head and followed Chris.

...

The instant Chris introduced himself to the officer manning the front desk Buck knew his old friend was bringing matches to the gasoline party. Dressed all in black with boots, jeans, t-shirt and a mid-thigh leather jacket, Chris was a pair of Ray-Bans away from being someone you really didn't want to mess with. A sharp flip of identification had one Officer Ronnbek staring from the federal badge to a pair of piercing eyes.

"Special Agent in Charge Larabee, ATF, to see Assistant Commander Gunderson."

"I'm sorry, Agent, I'll have to see if-"

Chris stopped the man cold. "He knows I'm coming."

Buck tried to hide his grin. _Oooohweee. Let the fireworks begin._

Minutes later, the two agents stood in the office of AC Jerry Gunderson. He was a portly man in his fifties who had once seen a lot of street time but over the last nine years had seen only too much paperwork from behind a desk. His "Assistant" title relegated him to working most weekends, which was why he was now stuck bearing the brunt of some intense federal irritation.

"An hour ago your Detectives Dorison and Hilliard interfered with, and may have greatly jeopardized, a multi-agency operation that we had under surveillance. They took two suspects into custody, along with over one-hundred thousand dollars and a van with twenty boxes of BW-5s.

"My team and I witnessed irresponsible police conduct that bordered on illegal; I don't think we even heard anybody Mirandized." Chris's voice was calm, yet it held a dark undertone. "Now I'm sure there's a very good explanation as to why you would give permission to your officers to do what they did, and Agent Wilmington and I are happy to wait while you call them in."

Gunderson seemed thrown but answered quickly. "Agent Larabee, first let me apologize for any perceived difficulties you may associate with the actions of Detective Dorison and Detective Hilliard. They're both good officers and I'm sure that any actions they took were deemed reasonable given their situation."

The man didn't leave Chris any time to respond to the defense. He already had the phone's handset to his ear and had dialed an extension. "Page Dorison and Hilliard to my office." His brow furrowed in reaction to the answer he received. "No. I'll try Booking." A jab with a thick finger and another rapid sequence of numbers rang him through to the admitting station. "Tell Detectives Dorison and Hilliard to report to me immediately."

For the second time in less than a minute, confusion colored the man's face. "They have evidence and two suspects in custody, where _else_ would you suggest I look?...Yes, you do that." The assistant commander hung up the phone carefully, using the seconds to compose himself. "Agent Larabee, I'm sure Michael and Carl are on their way in-"

"On their way in?"

With Chris's response, Buck wished he had a pin just so he could hear it hit the carpeted floor.

"They left a good _fifteen_ minutes _before_ us! Did they _forget_ the way back?" The team leader hit Gunderson with another question. "What were they even doing out there?!"

The commander worked to keep his voice confident. "Until the detectives arrive, I'm afraid I can't answer that question."

It took Chris a second to process what the man was really saying. He cocked his head slightly; his eyes narrowed as he answered in a flat tone. "You didn't know they were out there."

For a brief instant Buck thought Chris looked like he might give in to an inner urge and reach across the commanding officer's desk to grab the man by the throat.

"Two of your men severely compromise a federal investigation and you didn't even know what they were doing!" Chris's voice dropped to a cold, hard level. "Agent Wilmington and I came up through the DPD and until this moment I have never been embarrassed to say that."

Chris's voice took on even harder edge and Buck recognized the icy attitude and presence that garnered the Team Seven leader the reputation he had. "I don't know what kind of clueless, half-assed district you've got here but as of this morning it's interfering with _federal_ jurisdiction. A first-year defense attorney would have a field day with how your men handled things.

"We recorded enough piss-poor performance to get this case tossed out a half a dozen times on technicalities alone. And now you're standing here telling me that four men, an unmarked car, a van loaded with weapons, and a _hundred_ _grand_ are _lost_ somewhere in downtown Denver?"

A shrill ring from Chris's jacket pocket gave Gunderson a respite from the ATF agent's wrath. Chris answered without breaking his gaze on the AC.

"Larabee," he barked.

Buck saw his friend's eyes close briefly and watched the tension drain from his shoulders. Buck didn't need the vocalized confirmation that came next.

"It's him," Chris said. "Where are you?... What? How did you…." The team leader listened to the explanation of how his undercover man got back to their office but he was soon rolling his eyes in an exasperated manner. "…Ez-…Ezr-… your car is fine, we have it…Ez-…"

Buck could all but hear the endless stream of complaint and criticism. _Yep, madder than a bald dog._

"Standish!" The team leader's brusque tone silenced the rapid-fire speech on the other end. Chris spoke again but this time Buck recognized the tolerant "handling Ezra" quality in his voice. "Shut up. You all right?"

Buck could hear the long silence from the other end of the call as Ezra processed the question. His supervisor had silenced him for no other reason than to find out if he was unhurt. Nothing else mattered–not the case, not the weapons, not even the one-hundred and ten thousand dollars. In Chris's mind, none of it took precedence over the well-being of the team's undercover man. Buck was always amazed that Ezra never seemed to remember that. But then the faint sound of talking resumed from the other side, and Chris nodded to whatever Ezra was saying.

"...Yeah, Josiah gave us the blow-by-blow…What?..."

Listening to his agent, Chris sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Great, so what time do _they_ want to meet?..." He checked his watch, exhaled again and muttered to himself. "It's Sunday, for crissake, I should be at home… No, we're at the Sixth District house… Why do you say that?"

Buck caught Chris's expression as his eyes flicked just for an instant toward Gunderson. "You're sure?... No, don't worry about that, _he_ is still wanted."

Buck knew Ezra asked about whether or not Mr. Simpson was still considered a criminal and not the alter-ego of an undercover agent. "We'll be there in less than thirty…Yeah, yeah, well, fill out a reimbursement form. You're good at that. Good-bye, now."

He disconnected the call and slid his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket before looking at Buck. "FBI and DEA called already. They want to know what their money bought them." Turning his focus toward the assistant commander, Chris spoke once more before leaving. "You can wait for my call."

As the two agents strode from the office Buck noted that Officer Ronnbek was no longer at the front desk, but now appeared to be deeply enthralled with some filing, directly outside his CO's office. Buck smiled and shook his head. _You gotta get your info from wherever ya can._ Of course, the ladies' man usually acquired his office gossip from more attractive sources.

…

The other members of Team Seven came to attention as Chris and Buck approached.

"That was quick. Where's Ez?" JD was still in the passenger's seat of the surveillance van but his energy could not be contained and he absently drummed his fingers on the window frame.

"He's okay," Buck answered. "He ain't _here_, but he's okay."

Nathan's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, 'he ain't here'? I thought those two detectives were out of this District."

"They are," Chris said. It was obvious to his team that he had not received any answers from the assistant commander that improved his earlier mood. He lowered his voice. "Ezra's back at the office. He called me while we were in there. Seems he got offered quite the interesting deal. On top of everything else, it's looking like we may be dealing with a little dirt here at the Sixth."

A low whistle from Josiah and a simple one-word curse from Vin were among the reactions implying the team knew exactly what their leader meant. Chris related the brief amount of information Ezra shared with him during their call. Glancing at his watch, he made it clear their work day was not yet over. "Some of the Fibbie and Drug guys working this case should be at the office by the time we get there. Josiah, we're gonna want those photos sooner rather than later. JD, same thing with the transcripts of what we got this morning."

He showed a hint of a grin. "Like Ezra says, boys, 'no rest for the wicked.'"

…

Vin whistled softly as he stepped off the elevator to the 11th floor of the nearly empty Federal Building and walked beside JD toward the bullpen. With JD checking in the surveillance van and Vin cautiously driving the Jaguar, the two agents were the last two to arrive.

"Oh, shit," Vin blurted. He tossed the keys he had been absently fiddling with to JD. The kid's reflexes kicked in and he snatched the Jaguar's keys out of the air. "Tell him you drove."

JD's brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"The _Jag_."

"Oh! Right."

Ezra had stated on several occasions that JD was the only member of the team whom he truly trusted to drive his sports car. In his words—Vin should not be trusted with any vehicle, Josiah drove like an old woman, Nathan had the tendencies of a repressed speed-demon and, well, he had many other words to say on the subject.

"He's had a shitty enough morning already," Vin said. "Might as well try to make the rest of the day as stress-free as possible."

The southerner's laugh blended with others coming from the conference room.

JD glanced at Vin. "Maybe that won't be as tough as we thought."

The small room was crowded with not only their team but also five other individuals, one of whom was very well known to Vin and JD.

A handsome, dark-haired man of Mexican descent leaned hip-shot against the long table. He had obviously just finished relating an animated story but he let his focus follow Chris's glance toward the doorway. His dark brown eyes lit up and he showed a white-toothed smile as he spotted the approaching agents.

Raphael Cordova de Martinez met Chris Larabee's group four years earlier. His initial interactions with the team had been far from smooth. The Agent In Charge heading the Drug Enforcement Administration team that Martinez was on had been the source of the trouble and conflict.

When the dust from that first assignment settled, Raphael had formed an uneasy truce with Team Seven. Based on mutual respect, it eventually grew into a friendship after Raphael's transfer to a better DEA unit and the opportunity to work several cases with Chris's group.

"Hola, chiquito!" Raphael greeted JD with the nickname he had bestowed on the young man upon their first meeting. Though it had started as a moniker with sarcastic undertones, he used it now with nothing but fondness.

JD shook his head but couldn't prevent the grin that crept across his lips. He received the hand and hug offered to him. "Rafe, what the heck are you doing here!"

A soft Hispanic accent peppered the other man's speech as he answered. "What am _I_ doing here? This is our party. It is you all who are the invited guests."

JD recognized a second member of Raphael's team and waved at a tall, lanky man in his late 20's with a goatee and straight, shaggy blond hair that brushed his shoulders. He leaned quietly against one wall of the conference room dressed in jeans and a Green Day t-shirt. He slouched with his hands in his back pockets. "Agent Fiores," JD said, addressing him with a flourishing, respectful tone. "Good to see you again, Marco."

"Hey, JD." The agent nodded and shyly smiled as he came forward to exchange a greeting with JD that involved a soft high-five that morphed into a bumping of forearms. It was like baseball players after a win. "Hey Vin." He shook the other's hand, while receiving a bit of teasing.

Vin tugged at the ends of Marco's hair. "You goin' clean cut on us?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend told me it was looking straggly. Took off about four or five inches."

JD scanned the faces of the three other men wearing visitor's badges but assumed they must be FBI, as he didn't recognize any of them. "Where're Steven and Benny?"

"Ibagua." Marco said it as if the Colombian city was as commonly known as Starbucks.

Raphael elaborated on his quiet partner's answer. "El jefe and Benito are soaking up the sun in Bogata…west of there actually, but you get the idea. They're working this case from the other end."

JD grinned. "Chris said DEA was in on this too but, shoot, what are the odds?"

"Small world, no?" Raphael switched his attention to Vin and warmly shook his hand and pulled him in for a quick hug. "Oye cuate! Que honda?"

"Same ol', same ol'. Y ti?"

"Nothing exciting. Inez doing well?" He asked the question with the same slight trepidation that he always did. The DEA agent still harbored guilt over how he'd allowed blind loyalty to his superior nearly ruin the life of a woman whom he now considered a friend.

"She's good. Still the manager over at 'J. Watson's'. Come on out with us tonight, she'll be workin'. She'd love to see you."

Raphael let a sly smile show and he spoke with overly-poetic sarcasm. "Quieres ser parpadear de ternura ante una botella de whisky esta noche?"

Vin made a show of pressing his hand to his head as if battling a headache. He laughed and answered. "Cállate, guey, cállate."

Buck interrupted. "My Spanish may suck but I know the word whiskey when I hear it."

Raphael translated, making a feeble attempt to sound innocent. "I only asked Vin if he was up for another date with a bottle?"

"Yeah," replied the Texan, "and I told him to shut up. Took me a whole day to get rid of the hangover I got last time he was in town and we all went drinkin'."

"We were celebrating getting a conviction last time, no? Let us hope we can toast to that again soon." He turned to Ezra. "Though it seems, as always, Los Magnificos aren't happy with just one fish."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "It's not my fault those two buffoons blundered in." He glanced at Chris. "Any read off their CO?"

Chris shook his head. "If he knew what they were doing then he's a damn good actor."

"Hell," Buck said, "he looked more confused than a nun with a positive pregnancy test. Damn it all Ez; you're the only man I know who can stumble into a bees' nest and come out smellin' like honey."

"Yes, well, be that as it may," Ezra answered, "we are goin' to have to get I.A. involved and, while there shouldn't be presumed guilt of anyone else at the Sixth, they should go into it assumin' the worst."

Chris added a call to Internal Affairs to the list of things he would have to do before going home. He considered skipping home completely and going right from the office to the saloon and just spending the night there.

As the agents settled themselves in the room, JD laid the Jaguar's keys on the table in front of Ezra. The younger man winced at the discoloration highlighting his friend's left cheekbone. "You put any ice on that?"

Ezra smiled at the display of concern and nodded. He wasn't eager to draw attention to the fact that he had been knocked around and he smoothly redirected the focus. "No damage. The clip mic and transmitter are on your desk."

Chris stood at the head of the conference room table and rapped his knuckles on the polished surface to get everyone's attention. Addressing Vin and JD, he gestured with one hand to a youthful looking, clean-cut man in his mid-forties seated at the opposite end of the table.

"You fellas missed introductions earlier. The man responsible for the files you studied up on...This is Senior Agent Tyler Desmon and a couple of his boys from the FBI's San Diego office."

Vin glanced at the two men flanking Tyler and couldn't help but wonder if the FBI was breeding agents rather than recruiting them. They both appeared to be in the same mid-thirties age range with short, dark hair, athletic builds and square jawlines. Though dressed in street clothes, there was something about them that made Vin think they would feel more at home in suits. _No wonder Ezra started out FBI, he's got the natural genes for it._

Tyler nodded to his right, then to his left. "James Cheski. Ray McRaney." He looked at JD and Vin and spoke sincerely. "As I said before you gentlemen arrived, the FBI is very grateful for your assistance on this case and my agents and I look forward to working with you."

The man introduced as McRaney was staring at the table but he lifted his eyes just enough to shoot a glance at Ezra. "Well…we're looking forward to working with _most_ of you."

With JD and Vin sitting on either side of him, Ezra sensed both of them tense. JD leaned forward in his chair and Vin fixed the FBI agent with a piercing stare. Though Ezra felt truly appreciative of their reactions, he did nothing more than show an amused grin. "Mackie, by sayin' that, you're implyin' you _do_ actually work."

Ray tried to maintain his hard look but only managed it for a few seconds. A wide smile surfaced and he addressed Ezra again. "This from a guy who made manipulating the hours of the work day a freakin' art form."

Vin and JD realized what was going on and allowed themselves to relax.

Ezra tried to sound put out. "Excuse me, but I worked very hard in those days."

Ray sobered. "No bullshit there, Standish. It just sucks that Atlanta was run by a bunch of idiots and assholes." He shook his head. "Damn glad to see you outta there. Hell, _I'm_ damn glad to be outta there," he smiled again and slapped the table, "and right here…pissin' with the big dogs!"

The latter exclamation garnered a reproving look from Senior Agent Desmon, and Ray coughed in an apologetic manner. "And by that, I mean-"

Ezra cut him off. "Ah-ah. Mackie, you should probably just stop talkin' now, otherwise you're liable to owe more than just the _first_ round tonight."

Tyler and James exchanged a slightly startled look at the southerner's knowledge of their own team's way of punishing an "open mouth-insert foot" maneuver.

With a nonchalant tone, Ezra explained. "I assume from your expressions that he initiated that particular penalty amongst ya'll. From where, exactly, did you gentlemen think he learned it?"

Light laughter echoed throughout the room and Chris suspected it was a good time to start the debriefing.


	5. Chapter 5

**PART FIVE**

**-Sunday, afternoon-**

Detective Mike Dorison hitched up his jeans as he walked towards the front desk at the 6th District police station. He threw a wave to the uniformed officer there. "Hey Ronnbek. How was your daughter's wedding?"

The other man smiled. "Nice. She landed herself a good guy. Thank God she dumped that fuck-up she was dating in college. Hey man, speaking of fuck-ups—you and Carl better get over to the AC's office. Jesus, you two sure managed to piss everybody off."

Dorison's stomach tightened. The Assistant Commander was the last person he wanted to see. "What?"

Ronnbek leaned close and lowered his voice. "The collar you made this morning. The two guys with the shitload of guns and money. Some ATF S-A-C was in here earlier… fuckin' _nuts_. Man, and I thought I'd seen Commander Dilley rip somebody a new one. This guy went from stone cold to ass-chewing and back again in about five seconds. Nobody knew where you two were. Gunderson didn't even know you guys had anything going down. And shit if that didn't piss off that Bureau guy even more."

Dorison swallowed hard and prayed he didn't look as sick as he felt. Ronnbeck continued.

"The AC wants your butts in his office as soon as you're in the building. And if I was you I'd be hoping he keeps it all internal, 'cause you sure as shit don't want that Special Fuckin' Crazy Agent-In-Charge Larabee in your face."

With a forced laugh, Dorison answered, "No sweat, man. Me and Gunderson talked about ten minutes ago. My cell was off so I just missed his earlier call when we were out on the job. It's all cool; I filled him in."

He made a show of patting down his jacket pockets. "Shit, left the phone in the car." He strode back the way he had come, hoping to meet his partner on the way. Carl Hilliard stepped off the elevator from the parking garage only to have a strong hand clamp onto his arm and spin him back into the empty elevator.

"Jeez, Mike, what the—"

"They know!" Dorison hissed.

"What?"

Dorison jabbed the button that would take them back to the garage. "I just talked to Ronnbek! He said some ATF Agent-In-Charge reamed Gunderson this morning after our little breakfast meeting."

Hilliard slumped against the back wall of the car and felt his heart rate spike. "Shit. What do we do?" he stammered. "Are you sure they know? Christ, ATF. What the hell? You think they're watching Artie? They must be after Vargas. You think that's it? That must be it. They must be after Vargas. What exactly did Ronnbek say?"

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened on the quiet garage. Dorison pulled his partner by the arm and spoke in a sharp, quiet voice. "He said enough for me to know we need to disappear sooner than we planned!"

They reached their vehicle and Hilliard fumbled to unlock the doors. "It's too early. Where are we gonna go? Vargas's shipment may not come in for days."

Dorison didn't answer until they were both in the car. "It'll be fine. We just find a place to hole up, get a couple of burner phones, and wait till Arthur says it's go time. Look, we've taken months to sell off everything we own so that no one would notice. We have the passports we got from Trace. He's in Thornton so nobody will be able to get any info from him."

Hilliard had started the car but had yet to move it, he just sat staring at his hands as they gripped the steering wheel. Dorison kept talking.

"We already have our tickets for the Islands. We'll drive to our banks now, drain the accounts and go underground. We've worked this town for eight years–you think we can't find a place to hide for a few days? We have everything planned already. We're just doing it a little early."

"But it's just the Caymans," Hilliard blurted. "The U.S. can extradite-"

"Relax!" He clapped a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Relax, man. Trace set us up with everything we need. As soon as we check in for our flights we are brand new people. Even if anybody looks, they wouldn't be able to find us 'cause they wouldn't know who the hell they were looking for."

A dull nod was Hilliard's first answer. "Right. Yeah, man. We can ditch the car in a mall and just… like you said, hole up somewhere. Arthur's the only one who needs to know how to get ahold of us."

"Right," Dorison assured. "This is it, man. We'll get Vargas's money and then it'll be nothin' but sun and rum and half-naked island girls till we can't get our dicks up."

Hilliard nodded again and finally pulled out of the spot. The Ford Interceptor cruised slowly out of the police parking garage and faded into the Sunday afternoon traffic.

…

**-Sunday, night-**

Josiah's deep voice was just loud enough for the FBI agent across the table to hear. "…to this day Ezra has a noticeable aversion to the color lavender."

Ray McRaney laughed at the mental pictures conjured by Josiah's story, while Nathan, Chris, Vin and Buck shared broad smiles, thanks to their own real memories. Toward the back of the bar, around a pool table, JD and Raphael exchanged a high five. It was apparent that their challenge to Ezra and Marco for a game of Cannonball had left them victorious.

Ray took a sip of beer and didn't mind that his boss and their teammate had not been able to come out with them. "Aw, hell," he stated confidently, "Ezra can piss-and-moan all he wants, but he was never happy any place else than when he was working u.c. and trying to pull one over on the bad guys." He called out to one of the four men returning from the pool table. "Ain't that right, Standish?"

Not bothering to sit, Ezra retrieved his half-finished shot of Glenmorangie single malt and answered. "Now, Mackie, what sort of Sunday come-to-town fool would I have to be to blindly agree with somethin' you've said?" He looked at the other men around the table. "Do I even want to know what sorts of lies and half-truths this uncouth reprobate is tellin' about me?"

Vin scooped up the last bit of now-cold nachos from a plate in the middle of the table. "Nothin' worse than the ones we're tellin' 'bout ya." He shoveled the large portion in his mouth and smiled broadly as he chewed.

Beside him, Chris also answered, showing a hint of a wicked grin. "And nothing we won't be able to blackmail you with later."

Nathan puffed lightly on an Ashton Virgin Sun Grown cigar. "Who won?"

A cool confidence radiated off of Raphael as he took a seat beside Nathan. "The chiquito and I schooled them well."

Ezra shook his head despairingly and exchanged a look with Marco, who stood with Ezra at the head of the long table. "Now, that's not fair. We were at a disadvantage; I haven't played pool in a while." He slipped a hand into the pocket of his dress pants. "How 'bout this? I have another twenty here, care to go double or nothin'?"

Raphael opened his mouth to accept but JD cut him off. "Uh-uh." He pushed his backward-facing paperboy cap off his forehead a little and glanced at Rafe. "When he says that, it's best to just walk away with your winnings."

Ezra stared at JD. "You can't tell him that! Rafael, do not listen to this boy. He's been drinkin'."

"Haven't played in a while?" challenged Nathan, exchanging a look with Buck who finished his friend's thought.

"You robbed me and Nate of twenty each at 8-Ball just last Friday." Buck shook his head. "I can't believe you're tryin' to hustle them, pard. That's low."

Ezra stuttered a reply. "Hustle? Hustle? You think…. You're sayin'…I believe my character has been besmirched."

Standing behind the southerner, Marco silently mouthed to the men at the table. _"Besmirched?"_

Though Ezra couldn't see Marco, he could see the resulting smiles and cocked his head upward in the direction of the DEA agent. "Oh, please tell me I am not bein' mocked by Scooby-Doo's Shaggy."

The younger man was saved from answering by a muffled ring, and nearly everyone at the table began patting down their pockets for phones.

"Is that me?" someone asked.

"It's me." The serious look on Ezra's face indicated the ringing phone was not his personal one. The only individuals who called on the number of the secondary cell were looking for Mr. Simpson. He slipped a silver Nokia from the pocket of his suit jacket on the back of Josiah's chair and looked at the caller ID.

"Ya'll will excuse me," he requested, with a dark smile. "After this mornin's little circus, I'm goin' to enjoy makin' Arthur sweat a bit over whether or not I'm still interested in this deal." He made his way to the quiet surroundings of a back hallway and faintly heard Vin call out.

"Give 'em hell, Ez!"

Ezra grinned as he answered the phone. "Simpson…Why, Mr. Pentilide, I do believe you and I have a few things to discuss."

Back at the table, Ray wore an expression of disbelief. "Ez?"

Vin shrugged and nodded toward JD. "He started it."

The FBI agent's incredulity melded into a warm smile and he shook his head. Never in a million years did Ray think Standish would allow anyone to shorten his given name. _He must have finally found someplace where he feels comfortable._ Ray looked at the young man now seated beside him. "He must be mellowing in his old age."

JD shelled a peanut and tossed it in his mouth. "Has he changed much since you guys worked together?"

Ray chuckled. "Yeah, you could say that. Hell, the whole time I knew him, I only got him out for beers maybe three times. And I didn't see the inside of his apartment more than once, maybe twice."

This time it was JD who looked surprised. Not only did Ezra allow the team to his townhome for such things as poker nights, but JD knew for sure that Buck's "Colorado Parrot Head Club" sweatshirt was in Ezra's laundry room, now most likely cleaned and neatly folded, and Josiah's Birkenstocks were still by the door that led from the garage to the house.

"Damn," Buck said, with a broad smile, "he musta been even more uptight back then than he is now."

Josiah grinned. "That possible?"

"Oh, I could tell you some stories," Ray said.

"Well, by all means," Chris encouraged. "Do tell."

Ezra returned a few minutes later with a self-satisfied grin, which faded only slightly as he caught the end of whatever story Ray was telling.

"…one of those times when you _know_ you're not getting out, and your mind is working about ten different angles at once. But there's always that one spot in your brain that's making those promises to God, 'Sweet Lord in Heaven, please just get me outta this alive.'"

Dry laughter from the men at the table blended with the conversations of other patrons around them and music from the juke box. Ray popped a peanut in his mouth and continued.

"I worked with a guy in D.C.—real level-headed—didn't do any of the superstitious crap you see some u.c. guys do. He said there was a part of the brain called the 'prayer spot'. It's the part that, no matter how busy the rest of the brain is at trying to figure a way out, that spot is devoted only to begging the good Lord for a second chance. Whenever he walked out of something real hairy, he'd say, 'That one sure got my prayer spot working.'"

Ezra breathed a laugh, truly understanding what his friend meant. "So there _is_ a name for it. Well, let's hope I'm not required to call on it. I'm meetin' Vargas tomorrow."

There were more than a couple of surprised faces at the table.

"That was fast," commented Nathan.

Ezra explained. "Since his original buyer backed out it appears desperation is colorin' Mr. Vargas's world."

Vin still sensed their friend was unsettled about something and subtly offered back-up. "Is Mr. Simpson gonna be wantin' his bodyguard along?"

Ezra shook his head. "I don't believe so. We'll save Mr. Travers for a later date."

Raphael and Marco exchanged a look. As DEA agents, they had long known the history of Ian Vargas's brutality.

"You're going alone?" Marco asked. His tone and expression made him seem like a young boy asking about monsters.

Josiah glanced up at Ezra, making sure to catch his eye before looking back to the two drug officers. "Our brother's never alone. JD and I are good for surveillance and back-up."

Ezra knew the reason behind Marco's question but he did not want to think about what the younger man was alluding to. "My instincts say he's just wantin' to feel me out. He's got a suite at the Brown Palace. And considerin' Assistant Director Travis's friendly connection to one of the owners, surveillance should be extremely effortless."

"Let me guess," offered Raphael, "you've been invited to lunch."

JD's brow furrowed. "Lunch?"

"It's what he always does," Raphael explained. "Ezra's right, he's feeling him out. Vargas trusts Pentilide more than anyone else in his organization but he always likes to form his own impressions." Raphael gave in to a bit of black humor and he glanced up at the southerner with a wicked smile. "And I'm sure he'd like to form at least a few of you, cachas."

A pained expression passed over Ezra's features but he didn't reply. JD knew something was not being said; however, he was unsure what it was. "What's that?" he asked.

Raphael was still smiling. "Just my way of telling our amigo I'm sure a man such as himself will have no problems being accepted by Vargas."

Vin had picked up on the Spanish slang that was usually heard when talking about attractive young men, and his brow creased a bit. He made a mental note to ask Ezra a few questions about Vargas.

Ezra tapped Josiah on the shoulder signaling for the large man to lean forward so he could pull his suit jacket from the back of the chair. The southerner slipped into the coat and grinned sarcastically back at Raphael. "My, my, Senor Martinez, you're awfully mouthy for somebody who doesn't have the talent to handle his own case."

Tossing a twenty on the table, Ezra shot back the rest of his scotch and tipped two fingers to his brow in an informal salute. "I must be goin' if I'm to get any sleep tonight. Mackie, fabulous to see you, my friend. Marco, glad to be workin' with you again as well." He broadened his grin and warmly offered a final salutation. "Rafe…go fuck yourself."

He turned and headed for the door, smiling as shouts and whoops echoed behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

**PART SIX**

**-Monday, Late afternoon-**

Ray blurted out the first thing that came to his mind after Ezra finished talking. "Jesus, no wonder you guys have the track record you do – shit just falls into your lap." He caught an admonishing look from his boss and flashed back an apologetic wince.

The small conference room adjacent to Chris's office once again held twelve federal agents. This time it was for the debriefing of Ezra's meeting with the Vargas camp.

The southerner leaned back in his chair and responded to the comment. "I know I should try to claim some credit for this but…swear by lightning, it was nothin' more than a stroke of pure good fortune."

Josiah raised his brows. " 'Cept for the fella who died."

Seated at the head of the table, Chris addressed Ezra. "This is pretty convenient. You're sure this isn't any kind of game or set-up?"

"God's truth, Mr. Larabee—Vargas was shocked. I exaggerated no details. One of his men walked up to the table, whispered somethin' to him and the next thing I know he's lookin' none too happy and swearin' in Dutch. Then he asks if I happen to know any good, trustworthy hackers because his apparently died last night of an Ecstasy overdose.

"I'm sure he wasn't askin' me seriously but, truth to tell, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. So that's when I said, 'as a matter of fact, I do.'"

"Who you got in mind?" Vin asked.

"I've no idea," Ezra answered. "But I figured between our three agencies we should be able to come up with somebody who fits the bill."

Chris looked at Agent Desmon. "You guys have anyone?"

Tyler consulted with his men. "Robert Plares?"

Beside him, James Cheski shook his head. "He and his wife just had their first baby; he won't be back for at least two or three more weeks. What about that weird guy with the crew cut? Jay-somebody."

Ray looked puzzled. "Jason Barrington?"

"Yeah."

"No, he's locked into the Sundial Operation."

Buck tossed out a suggestion for ATF personnel. "There's that girl downstairs, Barbara."

"Barbara the Beast?" blurted Ezra. "As a hacker? Dear Lord, Buck, I'd rather try to pass off Mr. Rodgers with an Etch-a-Sketch."

"Mr. Rodgers is dead."

"My point exactly. We need someone good. This man was on Vargas's payroll. Not only was he in charge of Ian's off-shore bank accounts, but he handled things like electronic launderin' and, shall we say, 'discreet' wire transfers."

"How much time do we have?" asked Chris.

Tyler shook his head as he answered. "We're already under the gun. I got a call from the Coast Guard this morning—the Empress Phoenix hit the Texas coast today." He glanced at his watch. "Probably already docked. The Coasties said they _might_ be able to hold them up in port with inspections. But even with that and whatever ground transport Vargas has arranged, that's still only an absolute max of about a day and a half."

JD whistled. "That's quick."

Rafael nodded. "It is how Vargas operates. He runs fast, with very small crews. It is what has made him so hard to catch. He's on his way out of town while we Federales are still trying to get search warrants signed."

"It was a good idea, Ezra," Nathan said, "but I don't see how we can pull it off in the amount of time we have."

Ezra stared at them. "I think ya'll are missin' the significance of this opportunity. Agent Desmon's team already has Mr. Simpson's ersatz bank account set up." He tapped the cell phone on the table in front of him. "I have the routing numbers. And most importantly, Ian's recently departed tweak-freak was one of the key parts of Arthur's plan to steal this deal money. Need I remind you-"

JD realized what Ezra was saying. "Electronic bank account transfer. Arthur is planning on stealing the money you're supposed to wire into Vargas's account, so he must have had the hack in on it too."

"Exactly."

The youth's eyes widened with understanding. "Getting somebody in there in place of him would be jackpot for the Fibbies!" He immediately bit his tongue at using the unkind slang in front of "mixed company" and corrected himself, "uh… FBI. I mean, you could get access to accounts, financial records—some great ammunition to go into court with." His words tumbled out. "Oh! And because the hack had access to Vargas's accounts that means Pentilide would need that same person to wire the money into his own account for the steal—you'd have stuff on him too."

Nathan shook his head. "We'd still have to find somebody, never mind ramp-up time."

Marco's quiet voice cut in to the conversation. "JD can do it."

" 'Scuse me?" Buck replied sharply.

"Me?"

"That might just be an idea," Chris said. He noticed the youth still had a surprised look on his face. "JD, the Bureau doesn't send you to those tech seminars just so you can skip work."

Buck interjected with a wave of his hands. "Whoa, whoa, now hold up a minute there, Chris. JD does behind the scenes. _In_ the van, remember? We can just get somebody else."

JD shot a hard look at his friend. "Who, Buck? You? You had trouble with the voice mail system here." He glanced around at the rest of his team. "I had to set it up for him. He had like, ten messages of himself recording his own greeting."

Buck ignored the criticism. "Nate knows computers. You and him talk shop all the time. He-"

Nathan interrupted. "-ain't near as good as JD."

Irritated by Buck's mother hen tendencies and his seeming lack of faith in his abilities as an agent, JD retorted bluntly to his roommate's comments. "Thanks for the fuckin' vote of confidence, there, Buck."

"Gentlemen." Chris's icy tone secured everyone's attention. His men immediately knew what he was really saying. It was neither the time nor the place for bullshit squabbling. They could all but hear their leader's thoughts: _We do not air our laundry in front of others._

"Thank you for your input," Chris said. "Agent Desmon and I will get back with you once we make a final decision." He looked at Ezra. "I assume Vargas is going to want to 'get a feel' for whoever you come up with?"

The undercover man nodded. "I told him I'd give him a call tonight after I coordinated things with the person I had in mind."

Raphael spoke up. "Then you can expect he'll want to meet for lunch tomorrow."

"Divine," Ezra drawled.

Vin looked to Chris. "I.A. lettin' you in on anything about Dumb and Dumber?"

The team leader ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. "That's a whole other can of something we could do without right now. Seems Detectives Dorison and Hilliard have disappeared."

A worried look passed over Ezra's face. "I'm sorry… Exactly what do you mean by disappeared?"

Chris understood that his agent interpreted "disappeared" for "dead" and clarified the Denver PD's Internal Affairs' assumption. "As in gone to ground. Apartments empty, bank accounts closed. As soon as this deal goes down it looks like they're ready to make for those Cayman Islands that Dorison mentioned to Ezra.

"There's no record of either of them ever applying for a passport but, considering they're cops it's a given they know somebody who could get them fake ones." He looked at Ezra. "Any idea how they figure into all this?"

"None. Arthur has been less than forthcoming. Supposedly, it's nothin' I'd even notice. I'm to conduct business as usual and go on my way."

Nathan leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "There's no physical cash to take, why does Arthur need them?"

Josiah glanced at his teammate. "Maybe he doesn't. Think about it, Ezra said Dorison told him that Arthur had been looking for a huge fish for awhile. But when ol' Arty got busted by Dumb and Dumber, I'll bet he cut them in on his idea so as to keep himself outta trouble. I doubt Vargas would take kindly to one of his top dogs getting arrested."

"Hell," Buck said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's been slipping them a little cash in the meantime to keep 'em from stirring up trouble."

Vin nodded. "Ez is about to give Artie's boss a shitload of money and that little weasel is plannin' on funnelin' it to his own account. He can probably afford to part with some of it if it means he stays a free man. Them cops ain't gotta do nothin' but keep their mouths shut and disappear afterwards."

Chris caught Ezra's eye. "Just the same, talk to Arthur, see if you can make sure that," he paused before using his men's phrase, "Dumb and Dumber don't have any plans like yesterday morning."

"Oh, I'm sure after I tell Ian I have a replacement computer geek for him, I'll be hearin' from Arthur on the QT lookin' to borrow said hack."

Chris nodded. "All right, unless anybody has anything else…" The rest of the agents exchanged looks but seemed satisfied. "Agent Desmon, could I get a minute of your time?"

The others let Tyler and Chris lead the way from the room before attending to their own duties.

Josiah took his time leaving the conference room, curious to see the actions and emotional reactions of some of his teammates. He stood in the doorway, pretending to read a file as he watched JD head to his desk without acknowledging Buck. It didn't surprise the profiler when Buck followed on the boy's heels and pinned him down for what appeared to be a "brotherly" conversation. He watched the body language and could imagine the discussion.

JD dropped into his chair and slapped at his keyboard to wake up his computer. A pair of large hands settled on the edge of his desk as Buck leaned forward and whispered sharply.

"Damn it, kid, don't go gettin' all pissed off and pouty now."

A pair of hazel eyes flashed up at him. "_Pouty_?" JD answered in a low tone. "What is it with you? I ain't twelve, Buck. I'm just as much a member of this team as anybody else. I _earned_ this spot! You don't pull that mother hen crap on anybody else. I don't see you telling everybody that Ezra isn't good enough to meet with Vargas."

Buck's expression changed instantly and his shoulders slumped. "You think…?" He exhaled heavily. "Aw hell, that's not what I meant at all. What I said in there… all I meant was…."

"What?" JD seemed to be waiting for the reasoning behind Buck's apparent lack of faith.

"I meant _I_ don't want to see you meeting with Vargas. You read through those files Chris gave us. Hell, even Josiah said the man fits the technical profile of a psychopath." Buck shifted closer, lowering his voice even more as the two agents continued their attempt at a private conversation while in the middle of the Team Seven bullpen. "Now, I'd fight anybody who said you didn't earn your spot on this team; I'd even fight you if there was something that might take you off it. But…" He frowned, dropping his gaze.

"Look, Ezra has a helluva lot more u.c. hours than any of us. Shoot, the man is probably gonna talk the Devil himself into escorting him up to the Pearly Gates. But don't tell me you ain't seen that even he's seemed a little cattywampus since this whole case started?"

JD glanced over to where the southerner stood in conversation with Vin and nodded.

"Look, kid, I'm sorry I shot my mouth off in front of all them, but it don't change how I feel. I know you'd be the best man for this job, but it don't mean I have to like it. Now, are we good?" He grinned and held his fist out, waiting for JD to bump his knuckles.

The younger agent's mouth was tight and Buck couldn't tell if it was tension or simply JD biting back a retort. JD sighed and shook his head and Buck was about to add a second layer to his apology when a smile forced its way through his friend's terse expression and the kid raised his fist to comply.

Josiah's attention was divided between watching Buck rectify things with JD, and Vin subtly corner Ezra.

"Hey Ez… so you reckon Vargas is gonna be okay with you bringin' JD to the party? I mean, folks in his line of work don't usually trust real easy."

"I believe he'll go for it. When you're about to have 2,000 automatic weapons dropped on your doorstep and the man who is goin' to buy them from you offers you a suggestion, it's not considered too imprudent to throw caution to the wind just once."

Vin nodded and phrased his next question purposefully. "And you think he felt you out okay?"

Ezra reflexively winced. "Please don't say it like that."

The Texan now knew the assumption he'd made after hearing Rafael's comment at the Saloon was correct. "But he trusts ya?"

"Yes. Or so say my instincts."

"Well, I trust those." Vin studied his friend. "You look a might tired. We keep you out drinkin' too late last night?"

Ezra suddenly seemed to realize what Vin was really trying to find out. He was touched that someone may have noticed the underlying current of uneasiness that had been plaguing him. However, it unnerved him as well. Had he become that transparent? In his line of work he knew that could be fatal.

His meeting with Vargas that afternoon had left him feeling like a rookie. The man made his skin crawl. Nothing he could pinpoint, nothing specific, just little things. Holding a handshake a bit too long. Gazing and smiling coolly like a reptile.

During lunch a few drops of Ian's Bloody Mary fell onto a stainless steel serving tray and, for a brief second, memories of autopsy photos flashed into Ezra's mind. A body lying on a metal examining table, electrical burns visible on the sections of skin that hadn't been expertly peeled off. He had forced himself to smile and focus back on their lunchtime conversation. Now he hoped Vargas had not picked up on his unease.

"I'm fine." He knew his response to Vin sounded hollow.

The Texan nodded and, as he had the previous night, offered a comforting presence. "Travers is waitin' in the wings, if ya need him."

Ezra shook his head. "Josiah's interpretation of Vargas was accurate. If I bring in someone whom he perceives as a show of force, he's goin' to take it as a threat or a challenge. We need to keep him thinkin' he's in control."

"Shoot, pard, you can do that," Vin said with a smile. "You always got Chris thinkin' you're gonna do what he says." He lightly slapped his friend on the arm and drifted back to his desk.

Ezra couldn't prevent the grin that cropped up. He watched Vin for a moment before heading to JD's work station.

Josiah finally pushed away from the conference room doorway and figured he'd grab a late lunch. He hadn't been able to hear the conversations of his friends but their body language told him all he needed to know. There was balance. That's all that mattered.

…

**-Monday, evening-**

Two light raps on the doorframe of Chris's office caused the team leader to look up from his computer monitor. Ezra stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of his dress pants and his shoulders hunched in an introverted way. Chris wasn't surprised to see the southerner still in the office after standard working hours. He was usually late to arrive in the morning but he just as frequently stayed past anyone else.

The undercover agent truly enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere that settled on the Federal Building when its occupants consisted mostly of cleaning crews and security people. Tonight, however, the look on Ezra's face indicated there was something specific on his mind.

Chris leaned away from his keyboard. "What's up?"

Not moving from his spot, Ezra replied, "In regards to the debriefing this afternoon, I was hopin' to give my two-cents, so to speak."

Chris reclined in his high-backed leather chair and, with a motion of his hand, directed Ezra toward one of the other office chairs. "What's on your mind?"

The southerner sat and folded his legs, resting his right ankle across his left knee. He spent a few seconds adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt and picking away unseen lint. Chris noticed the hesitation maneuvers and waited.

Finally Ezra spoke, albeit hesitantly. "I am… in a bit of a dilemma." He kept his focus downward, working at the sharp crease in the right thigh of his black dress pants. "Ian Vargas is a smart… sick son of a bitch." His eyes finally rose to meet Chris's gaze. "And I believe it would be easier to manipulate him if he were… not wholly focused on his game."

Chris raised an eyebrow as he interpreted the statement. "Distracted?"

"Yes." Ezra paused before he continued, as if he was trying to find the right words. "It has always been well-rumored that Vargas has, what may be described as an… interest in…younger men. Which leads me to my double-edged sword."

As he spoke, his fingertips never stopped working at the pant leg crease of his thin wool trousers. "JD is quite capable of handlin' this assignment. He is highly intelligent and exceptionally talented in his field… He fits the role perfectly." He ran the tip of his tongue quickly along his lower lip. "However, he is also a very good lookin' young man, and… because of this I am hesitant to recommend him." The southerner's mouth curved with a wry twist. "I am concerned our boy fits the role too perfectly." Ezra paused, looking for guidance.

"You haven't talked to him?" It was more of a statement than a question.

A small dry laugh escaped Ezra's lips. "Besides the fact that I didn't believe it was my place… I wasn't sure how to broach the subject without usin' the term 'jail bait.'" He pushed a quick hand through his hair as Chris replied.

"What is it you're always saying he's got?"

They answered at the same time, each with a grin. "Youthful exuberance."

Chris continued. "I think because of that we all have a tendency to forget his background. JD was how many years a Boston street cop? And he ranked in the top for testing, marksmanship and physical courses for both BPD and ATF."

"Don't misunderstand me," the southerner inserted quickly. "It's not his abilities I'm concerned about."

"I know what you're getting at, Ez. He's not a rookie. I trust you both. Tyler's okay with him going in." Chris fixed his agent with a steady gaze. "If you think JD can handle it, it should be his decision."

Ezra couldn't help but smile. "That's not what Buck would say."

Chris returned the grin. "Yeah, well, just think of that as motivation to make sure nothing goes wrong."

"Oh, thank you," drawled the southerner. Rising from his chair, he seemed to bear less weight on his shoulders than he had when he entered the team leader's office.

"You still have to contact Vargas tonight, right? I'll call over to the CDC now and talk to him."

Ezra knew Chris meant the youngest member of their team, but he flashed a wily smile, nonetheless. "Which? Buck or JD?"

The expression was shot right back at him. "Sorry, Standish, if anything goes south, you're on your own with Buck."

A soft dramatic sigh accompanied a dejected shaking of the head. "Thrown to the wolves again."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Chris said with a grin. "Josiah's always said he thought you were raised by 'em."

Ezra raised his brows. "I'll be sure to tell my mother of his assumptions."

"You can probably get a lunch out of him if you tell him you won't."

Ezra smiled before nodding a "thank you" for the advice. He paused in the doorway and it was obvious to Chris that his agent dwelled on something more.

"What?" he prompted.

When Ezra finally glanced up, his eyes conveyed a deep mix of emotions. Chris knew he was witnessing a rare, unguarded moment. Ezra spoke softly, if not a shade tentatively, but his answer was succinct.

"I hate this."

Chris knew what the southerner meant. Ezra felt like he would be using JD. Once upon a time in Ezra's history, he wouldn't have given a whit about such things. If you worked law enforcement, you dealt with a lot of shit and if you couldn't handle it, you had no business doing the job. However, Maude Standish's boy had changed quite a lot since moving to Denver.

The team he worked with had become his family. They'd put their trust in him time and time again, and slowly, Ezra had learned to let down his carefully constructed wall and trust them as well. Unconditional friendship was not something he had often experienced while growing up, nor come across much in his professional career. Until Denver. And now he was burdened with the feeling that he would be using one of his friends; it did not sit well with him.

Chris met Ezra's eyes. "We'll be there."

The southerner seemed grateful for all that was meant in that three word statement and nodded before leaving.


	7. Chapter 7

**PART SEVEN**

Author's notes: This part is dedicated to Tidia, Tipper, Heatha' F., and jinx7985 …I do have a soft spot for that Dirty Water. (side note: Jinx, I discovered your stuff recently and have seen two similarities so far in your writings that are like things in this story. Please know it's purely coincidental. Great minds, and all. ;-) ).

**-Tuesday, early afternoon-**

The source of frenetic energy in the bullpen was hard to pinpoint. Ezra stood at the unmarked perimeter of Team Seven's area swinging his arms slightly before clasping his hands behind his back. He stayed that way until the edginess crested once more, channeling its way through his arms, and starting the pattern over again.

"JD, we do still have traffic to contend with."

"I'm coming!"

Buck rode JD's heels as the young man darted about the area, taking care of a few things before leaving with Ezra to meet Vargas.

"Did you leave your wallet?" Buck asked.

"It's in the top drawer of my desk."

"And you got the other one?"

"Yes!" JD tapped the back of his jeans pocket where a thin billfold held miscellaneous pieces of identification for "JD Donovan."

"Ain't you wearin' a mic?"

"Jeez, Buck, were you listening at all during the briefing? Josiah will be monitoring us. Ezra's wearing the lavalier, just like he always does."

"Well… stick close to him."

JD stopped suddenly and whirled on his friend, whispering sharply. "Would you quit with the m.h.!"

"Huh?" Buck replied.

Vin looked up from his computer, sporting a mischievous grin. "Mother Hen."

JD's face reddened with embarrassment and he shot Buck a dirty look for not understanding the abbreviation. Josiah smiled and rose from his desk. He pulled his jacket on while addressing the youngest member of their team.

"Son, is it too warm in here for you? You're looking a bit red."

This resulted in the young man blushing more. "Shut up, Josiah. Shouldn't you be at the restaurant already?"

"Walking over there now." Then he added with a wink, "It'll feel good to get out of this heat."

JD crossed briskly to the paper shredder to feed in a half-dozen sheets and was thankful when Nathan called to him.

"Hey JD, you still have that 2-hole punch?"

"I think so, look through my desk."

A strained southern drawl vied for his attention. "JD…we have an appointment. I believe it's important that we be on time."

What tumbled out of JD's mouth next brought them all to silence. "SO DON'T I! Jeez, Ez, not fuh nuthin', Ah'm doin' stuff heeah, ahright! Go down the garage 'n' wait if ya whant, Ah'm ahbout awlsetta go."

Several seconds of quiet passed and it was Ezra who found his voice first. "What?"

"I believe our brother may be speaking in tongues," Josiah said.

Buck addressed his partner first, before explaining to the others. "Damn, kid, you _are_ a little strung, ain't ya? He's gone Boston on us—not tired, so must be jacked up. It's that weird negatives-for-positives thing… so don't I means so _do_ I. Not for nothin', well, in this case think of it as 'not that it matters'. Down the garage and the I'm all set to go, you can probably figure those out." He gave Ezra a meaningful look. "You boys best be on your way before he starts tossing around 'pissah' and 'wicked'."

JD rolled his eyes and called to Nathan who was sitting in the young man's chair, searching through the drawers.

"Do me a favor will ya, Nate? I left my system in remote-dial-up mode; monitor it for me and if you see a long yell for help running down the screen—come get me out. I don't trust any of these clowns."

Nathan looked up from the lower drawer of JD's desk with the two-hole paper punch in one hand and sporting something else he had found there—a pair of black plastic glasses with fuzzy eyebrows, mustache and large plastic nose. "I'm here for you, buddy."

JD shook his head as he walked toward the elevators. "And _I'm_ the one they call kid?"

…

Seated in the passenger seat of the Jaguar, JD absently flipped the tip of his tie between two fingers. He was comfortable enough in the casual jacket and dress shirt required for lunching at Ellyngton's, one of The Brown Palace's restaurants, he just worried about heat and nerves making him sweat. He watched the downtown traffic shuffle and weave in front of them and wondered if Josiah had arrived at the hotel yet.

Yesterday, the two of them utilized a small, secluded office adjacent to Ellyngton's dining area. It had provided an excellent space from which to monitor and record Ezra's first lunch meeting with Vargas. With one of "Judge" Travis's old friends as part-owner of the hotel, the team had been afforded the luxury of leaving their surveillance equipment untouched from the day before.

"Why couldn't we just walk over to the Palace like Josiah?"

The young man's question was a sudden non-sequitur to Ezra's train of thought. He had been speaking to JD on and off since they had left the federal building, firing out bits of advice as he thought of them. He paused for a moment as his brain switched gears.

"And Misters Simpson and Donovan just happened to be within walking distance of the hotel? On the other hand, I suppose we could let Ian know we just nipped over from the office of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives but I'm not sure how productive that would be for the rest of the meetin'."

"Oh. Right."

"Now, what was I sayin'? Oh, never volunteer information. If they want to know somethin', they can ask. Silence encourages talkin'…don't fall into that trap."

"I know."

"And never lie when the truth will do."

"I know."

"That's why you always use your given name. Less to remember means less to mess up. If things get tense the last thing you want to be thinkin' about is what name you're supposed to be callin' your partner."

"I know."

"And pay attention. Listen to what's bein' said. Don't just hear… listen."

"I know, Ez. You told me that already."

"And never dismiss your gut instinct. As Josiah would say—the good Lord gave us a little voice for a reason."

"Christ, Ezra! I _know_!"

He hadn't meant to snap, but Ezra's chatter only managed to wear on nerves that were already keyed-up. The southerner immediately fell silent and coolly fixed his attention on the traffic in front of them. JD cursed himself. His mind scrambled to come up with something to say but Ezra spoke first.

"My apologies."

The clipped words said volumes. Over the years of working with Ezra, his teammates discovered one of the things that truly scared him was watching out for someone other than himself. JD's Mensa-level IQ made him an excellent problem solver; however, it lent little to his skills of perception and common sense. It had taken some explaining from Buck but JD finally understood that Ezra felt as bewildered by protective instincts as Buck felt natural with them.

JD knew his friend was feeling enough strain already with the case. With the additional self-imposed idea that he was responsible for JD's safety, it was no wonder the undercover man felt pressure to maintain a sense of control.

Ezra gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel and tried to ignore the uncomfortable silence he had managed to bring on. _ Just keep your mouth shut and drive, you idiot. As if the boy doesn't get enough of this sort of thing from Buck. I seriously doubt he appreciates—_

"I appreciate what you told Chris." JD's voice cut into Ezra's thoughts. The surprised look he received prompted him to elaborate. "He called last night to ask me about doing this. I asked him if you were okay with it and he told me the stuff you said."

JD busied himself with running one finger along the edge of a seam by the door's handle. "I just feel like, even back when I was with BPD I've had to work a lot at not being treated like a rookie… like a kid. Being talked about as a professional, well… I appreciate it." He glanced at his friend, who was again focused on the traffic. "And the advice too."

Ezra caught JD's gaze for a moment. "I just want… that is to say, it's only because…." He struggled to express how he felt but the words stayed in his head. _It's only because I want you to be safe._

He didn't have to say anything, however, JD knew him well enough. The earnest look in the southerner's eyes communicated everything. JD smiled sheepishly. "I know."

Ezra returned the grin and pulled the Jag into the hotel's valet parking line behind a Porsche Boxster and a bright yellow Hummer. Slipping his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he passed it to JD.

"Once we're inside, I'll find Vargas. You do a reception check with Josiah; make sure the lavalier is clear."

"Jeez, Ez, I know. You think I'm some kinda rookie?"

The levity in JD's voice caught Ezra off-guard and made him smile despite himself. If the boy was already joking about the tension from moments ago then he must be feeling more confident. _Good, _Ezra thought,_ that's what gets you home at the end of the day._

JD spoke again. "Hey, uh… what's he gonna talk about? Vargas, I mean."

"If it's anything like yesterday, himself. People respond very well to talkin' about themselves. Just keep askin' banal questions and you can keep the focus away from yourself for a remarkably long time."

Ezra edged the car forward while an attendant spoke with the owner of the Hummer. He fell silent and JD was suddenly aware of a different energy in the air. Glancing at his partner, he noted a familiar ritual taking place. Ezra's closed eyes snapped open and the warm smile JD saw a moment earlier was replaced by a hard intensity.

Knowing how Vargas unnerved an _experienced_ undercover agent, JD suddenly wondered if it was too late to back out of the meeting.

…

JD stopped just outside the doorway to Ellyngton's as he finished his call with Josiah. He watched Ezra maneuver through the elegant room to a table in the back where three men sat. Surveillance photos he had viewed during briefings allowed him to identify them: Arthur Pentilide; Aaron Janquist, a "security advisor" a.k.a. bone breaker; and Ian Vargas.

There was no mistaking which of them was in charge—Vargas commanded a strong presence. He stood as Ezra approached and shook the southerner's hand with both of his. JD exhaled a deep breath and made his way to the table.

"…must stop meeting like this, Ezra. People will talk."

JD watched his friend flash back a smile. "Nonsense, Ian. Everybody knows what happens to people in our line of business who talk."

This struck Vargas as particularly humorous. "I do like a man with a wicked sense of humor." He turned his gaze on JD. "Should I expect the same from your associate?"

"I can't really say," Ezra answered. "I never know what to expect from this one. Ian Vargas… JD Donovan."

There were times in JD's life when he really hated not being tall. This was one of those moments. Having a man like Vargas look down at him was, in a word, unnerving.

Ian shook JD's hand firmly but didn't let go right away. "And what does the 'J' stand for?"

The young agent couldn't help but wonder if this was how a mouse felt while being stared at by a snake. He tried not to let it show, pretending instead he was simply talking to someone's father. "John."

An oily smile stretched Vargas's lips and he gripped JD's hand a bit tighter. "Well, I never met a john I didn't like." The double entendre was not missed by anyone at the table. "I'm so glad Ezra offered me your services."

JD could only nod as he casually pulled his hand away.

Just over an hour later Ezra had finished off a bottle of San Pellegrino and most of an impressive pan roasted red meat trout. He only wished the company had been better. As it was, he'd had a notably subdued appetite.

A tall, muscular man approached the table and Ezra had a sudden flashback to the previous day's meeting. Vargas apparently shared the southerner's misgivings. He fixed a piercing, cold stare at the bodyguard and warned him.

"Timothy… Your news will be better than yesterday."

The man spoke softly into Vargas's ear and Ezra reminded himself not to react to anything. He shared a look with JD, as if trying to communicate the same idea.

Vargas grinned, his mood lightening in a split second. "Gentlemen, your ship has come in, and so has your plane. Finish your drink, Arthur, we have business to attend to."

It took Ezra a few seconds to process the statement and he could tell JD had yet to interpret. He allowed himself to reveal a bit of genuine surprise. "Ian, my friend, aside from the fact that the merchandise will not fit in my Jaguar, I am to be at a friend's weddin' rehearsal dinner at five o'clock tonight."

JD was amazed at how quickly and easily the lie slipped from Ezra's mouth. Vargas glanced at the heavy, silver Breguet watch encircling his wrist and smiled. "That's three hours from now, enough time to get to my strip and back."

"Strip?" Ezra queried.

"I had everything flown in from the ship to a not-quite-authorized airstrip. And I'm a fool for anything classic; I have two old DC-9s. Private planes are marvelous. You should get one."

JD shot Ezra a surprised look. Everything was going much too fast. Ezra, however, didn't acknowledge his fellow agent. "I hadn't planned on needin' to call up my trucks and drivers till at least tomorrow-"

The hard intensity JD had seen dealt to the bodyguard a minute earlier was suddenly focused on Ezra as Vargas hissed a reply. "We're supposed to be engaging in a multi-million dollar deal and you're telling me you can't organize a fucking U-Haul rental?"

Ezra laughed off the question with a casualness that JD knew he, himself, never would have been able to muster. "Of course not. There's nothin' to worry about. I just have to make a call or two. You'll excuse me." He smiled at JD. "You still have my phone?"

"Uh…yeah. Here ya go."

JD watched his friend walk toward the front of the restaurant where he could find a private place to talk. Left in an awkward silence, the young agent's mind raced to fill the quiet void and he recalled the advice Ezra gave him.

_Banal questions, banal questions…Okay, think like Buck. He talks up women he doesn't know all the time. What would Buck say?_

"So… what's your favorite part of Denver?"

Vargas never took his eyes from JD's face and answered with a slow smile. "Oh, definitely the scenery. It's very pretty."

All JD managed for an answer was a nod and a non-committal, "Ah." His inner voice, however, let loose a stream of obscenities at Ezra for leaving him at the table.

…

Josiah answered on the third ring and a familiar accented voice addressed him in a dry tone.

"I was beginnin' to wonder if you were still there."

Sanchez parroted Vargas. "Call waiting is marvelous. Sorry about the delay, I have Chris on the other line, bringing him up to speed."

"Then, I take it you heard everything? Flown in…imagine that. What happened to the _ground transport_?"

"Raphael did say the man likes to do things quickly. Tyler is scrambling his Tact. teams now, he said he can get air support too. Buck will be one of your drivers and Rafe will have the other truck. You can stay on cell with us and give us directions as you go. We shouldn't be any more than thirty minutes behind you."

"Josiah, I don't even know where we're goin'. It's a private air strip. God only knows if it's even on a map. Knowin' Vargas, we're lookin' at a line of dirt cut into the top of a mountain. I've no idea what kind of cover, if any, is goin' to be available."

Josiah could hear tension building in his friend's voice. "The only one who'll need to worry about cover is Vargas. We got some folks here looking to shake the pillars of Heaven—FBI wants good headlines and DEA wants paybacks."

"And what, pray tell, does ATF want?"

"Brother, we're just lookin' for a good time."

Ezra could hear the smile in Josiah's voice. The big man's sense of humor had appealed to him from the first day they had met. He was especially thankful for it at that moment. He smiled in spite of himself but was forced to end the call abruptly. "Follow the leader is about to begin. We'll call you later. Bye."

JD eagerly sidled up to Ezra as Vargas, Arthur and the two bodyguards approached. The southerner smiled as they neared.

"No problems at all. My people should only be about half an hour behind us."

JD relaxed a little when he saw that familiar cocky grin. If Ezra was feeling okay then he knew everything would be fine.


	8. Chapter 8

**PART EIGHT**

"Where the hell's Nathan?" Standing at Ezra's desk, where he'd taken Josiah's call, Chris scanned the office.

Buck called back an answer that he knew the team leader would not be happy with. "Left about fifteen minutes ago to grab some lunch and run some errands." The look he received was all too clear. "Shoot, Chris, it was just supposed to be an intro meeting for JD. Nobody knew we were gonna be going live."

"Anybody call him?" Chris asked, tersely.

"Already tried." Buck pointed to the phone lying on Nathan's desk, plugged in and charging.

"Great." Chris exhaled his frustration and ran a hand through his hair. "Well… write him a damn note. And leave word with lobby security—as soon as he steps foot in the building he's to call us. Everybody else is getting suited up. We gotta go."

…

JD spoke louder and repeated himself. "I said _north_. We just got on North 76….What? Josiah? You still there?... Say that again… No, we don't think anybody else will be there. Just Vargas, Arthur, and the two bodyguards… Say again... Yeah, that's them—Aaron Janquist and the other guy's name is Timothy, no last name on him…What? I'm losing you. Josiah? You there? Damn it!"

He stared at the display on Ezra's cell. "Oh, come on! No signal? How can there be no fucking signal? I was just talking to him. Hikers stuck on mountains never have trouble finding a damn signal!"

"JD!" Ezra's sharp snap instantly caught the young agent's attention. He softened his voice to a calming drawl. "Son, you need to relax. Just keep your eye on the phone; when you get a signal again, you call him back."

"Right."

…

To anyone driving by, it appeared to be two small delivery trucks sitting on the shoulder of the freeway in front of two larger trucks marked as Qwest Communications service vehicles. Inside told a different story. FBI agents made up the majority of the group, then DEA and finally ATF.

In one of the latter trucks, Chris sat sweating under the layers of tactical gear, flanked by FBI SWAT officers. He had been cautious to keep his alpha attitude in check after Tyler had scrambled men from the local FBI office. And he was thankful when he noticed the Senior Agent allowing him to take point on how the inter-agency group should progress. The man bore none of the bravado carried by many of the FBI agents-in-charge with whom Chris had dealt with in the past. He seemed to understand that when it came to the safety of your agents, you followed whoever was the most qualified.

Chris adjusted the position of the narrow band around his neck. It had been awhile since he had worn a throat microphone headset. With a compact ear piece, the design lent itself well for use with a gas mask. Chris, however, had no desire to see this operation end in a situation that required that. He keyed the small push-to-talk device secured to his heavy, black vest and answered the driver of the other Qwest truck.

"I don't like it either, Buck, but it's not going to do anybody any good if we just keep driving and then have to back track once they can get a hold of us again. We've got the BOLOs out. We just have to… give it ten minutes."

Chris did not think the Be On The Lookout notice to the regional state police would turn up anything but he had to cover all the bases. He realized this was the second time in as many days that they had managed to "lose" Ezra. It was definitely not a pattern he wanted to see develop. Somebody was going to owe him a bottle of whiskey for this case. He didn't know who, but somebody owed him.

…

JD glanced again at the display on Ezra's cell. "We turned off the freeway twenty minutes ago. Don't you think we should have picked up a signal by now?"

"Maybe they'll have a phone."

Something in Ezra's tone made JD look up. He followed his friend's gaze to the left. A long dirt road split off from the rural route they'd been traveling on. A small hangar sat amongst grassy flatland, which spread for a half-mile in all directions around the structure. The dirt road circled around the back of the building and butted up against the blacktop of the runway.

Ezra followed the black Cadillac Escalade down the gravel road, parking a few meters from it. He could sense JD's nervous energy but admired the boy for doing his best to keep it in check.

"What are we gonna do?" JD asked.

"What any businessmen would do. Use their phone to call our people and then inspect the merchandise. You'll transfer fake funds from our fake account to his very real one and in a few hours Mackie and his boss are buyin' us drinks at the saloon."

The confidence radiating off Ezra helped calm JD. The youth bobbed his head with an agreeable nod and wrapped his fingers around the door handle. He glanced back at his partner.

"Hey… um… do you–?"

The southerner shifted his right leg and raised the cuff of his trousers while flashing a grin. JD knew the .38 strapped to Ezra's ankle wasn't much but it made him feel a little less vulnerable.

A thought struck him. "You brought a handgun to lunch at one of the nicest places in town?"

"Force of habit. It comes in handy when mother and I do brunch; this way I'm prepared if I'm suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to kill either her or myself."

JD welcomed the levity and smiled. "Hate to tell you this, Ez, but I half-believe you." He stripped off the jacket and tie he'd been required to wear at the restaurant. "Let's ride."

They walked toward the hangar, watching Vargas and his men pass through a narrow door and disappear into the building.

JD muttered a warning to his friend. "You better not leave me alone with him again. Those couple of minutes at the table were bad enough. I felt like I needed to take a shower. That guy is weird. Is this what women feel like around a creepy guy?"

Ezra answered quietly as he pulled open a small door to the hangar. "I pray, my dear boy, I never know."

The space was divided into the main hangar to the left and, to the right, two offices along the wall, with a hallway that disappeared to the back of the building. Another office was straight back, opposite the front door.

The sight they focused on, however, was more impressive than they had imagined. The amount of stacked, sealed crates made Ezra happy this was the FBI's party. Let them deal with the laborious chore of logging in the evidence. Vargas's jovial voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Arthur, open a box so Ezra can see what he'll be bringing home. John, why don't you follow me and I'll set you up on-line in the office."

JD shot a glance at Ezra and the southerner responded immediately. "I believe the first order of business is to find a workin' phone. I'm afraid we lost contact with my people before I could give them full instructions to where we were headed."

Vargas nodded in understanding. "No signal? I should have warned you. There's an enormous pocket of dead airspace in this entire area. I could never live here. Denver is far too primitive for me. Come in the office, there's one there."

They followed him to the office opposite the front door, with Aaron on their heels. JD settled in quickly at the laptop on the desk and Ezra just as eagerly focused on the phone. With the receiver to his ear he glanced at Vargas.

"Isn't there supposed to be a dial tone?" Ezra felt a small measure of relief upon seeing Vargas's honest look of confusion.

Vargas caught Aaron's eye and the bodyguard flipped him a tiny nod before leaving the room. "Timothy!" Vargas called. He finished typing in a password for JD before taking the handset from Ezra to test it for himself. Timothy appeared in the doorway and Vargas waved the handset at him. "Why isn't this working?"

"It was fine on Sunday, sir."

"Never mind. Show Mr. Simpson to the one upstairs. JD... how are you at cleaning?"

The young agent knew he was being asked about his skill with passing funds through several accounts in order to make them difficult to trace. "Do you have your own accounts you want to wash through, or do you need me to pass them through some corporate ones? Screw the Banking Secrecy Act. No CTR's or CMIR's needed at the Bank of JD. "

Ezra tried to suppress a grin. Mentioning the currency transaction reports was a nice touch. He would have to remember to pass kudos on to the young man. As he followed Timothy out of the room he heard Vargas laugh. "Could I get you something to drink, John? There's a soda machine in the hangar."

Ezra realized that he would not be surprised if JD received a job offer before the hour was up. Five minutes later he followed Timothy back to the office where the bodyguard updated his boss.

"Sir, the upstairs line isn't working either. I checked the wiring in the hangar but nothing seems to be wrong there."

JD's brain began troubleshooting immediately. "I have 'net access, so the problem can't be that line."

Ezra caught his partner's eye and JD understood. He'd hold off on giving Vargas any account assistance until they made contact with the team. Aaron stepped up behind Ezra and addressed his boss in a serious tone. "Sir, there's a vehicle parked behind the building."

"That would be ours!"

Ezra recognized the voice thanks to close-quarters experience, while JD identified it from the audio surveillance he had recorded just two days earlier. Everyone in the office turned to see two men, pistols drawn, a few meters beyond the doorway. Detective Dorison stood with Hilliard. Their Denver Police Department badges hung by ballchains around their necks and were set off by the dark background of black bulletproof vests.

Hilliard covered Arthur, who stood wide-eyed by the crates of weapons and ammunition. The handguns they pointed encouraged everyone to comply with the orders that Dorison called out.

"Hands on your heads! Move slowly! Now let's have everybody sit down nice and quiet-like right here in the middle of the floor."

He smiled at Arthur, "You too, Arty. Sorry about this, but ya know, Carl and I figured we'd be able to live out the rest of our days in exile a helluva lot more comfortably if we had not only what _you_ were going to give us, but what you were going to _take_ too."

The men wordlessly obeyed, moving out of the office and seating themselves on the cement with legs outstretched—Vargas, JD, Timothy, Ezra, Aaron, and Arthur.

"Anybody even twitch and I will shoot you." Dorison looked at Vargas. "Can you believe Arty actually told us where this place was when we asked him? We barely had time to get here and kill the phones. Sorry about the phones, by the way…aw fuck it, no I'm not. But I do hope nobody's allergic to plastic 'cause my partner is now fitting everybody with bracelets of the Flexi-cuff variety." Dorison glanced at JD. "Oh, 'cept you. You must be Ezra's friend, Arty told us about you. We're gonna need you for a little electronic banking. But you just stay sitting for now."

He shifted focus to the southerner. "Hi-ya Ezra. Man, how unlucky can one guy be to get busted by us twice in one week. You're the worst fuckin' criminal I've ever met. Carl, make sure you pat down Mr. Clown Car real well. He ain't got nothing up his sleeve but I'd check that right pant leg if I was you."

With Arthur, Aaron and Ezra bound in Flexi-cuffs, Hilliard apparently decided that Dorison's gun was enough motivation to keep the unbound prisoners from attempting anything. He moved from behind the men on the floor to pull the Taurus from the soft nylon holster strapped to Ezra's ankle, while trying to stay out of kicking distance.

The southerner thought of how satisfying it would be to introduce one of his size 9 Brioni's to Hilliard's face. That, however, would do precious little toward getting them out of their predicament, and would most likely further someone getting injured or killed.

Unfortunately, Timothy wasn't so conscientious. Just as Hilliard bent over and pocketed Ezra's .38, the toe of the bodyguard's steel-toed boot caught the detective under the chin, snapping his head back. In the same motion, Timothy pulled a Heckler & Koch USP .40 from the shoulder holster hidden under his jacket and with frightening speed and accuracy shot the police officer twice in the head.

The instant Dorison saw the bodyguard's foot come off the ground he shouted at his partner to move. Hilliard's position, however, was directly between Timothy and Dorison. No opportunity for a clear shot presented itself until Carl Hilliard's body, with its bullet-shattered face, dropped to the cold cement of the hangar.

Dorison froze for an instant as he watched his partner fall. It was one of the last things he saw. Four rounds struck him squarely in the chest, knocking him backwards. The Spectra Shield vest did its job and protected his torso. Yet, as he lay on his back, reeling from the concussion of the shots, he realized there was nothing that could protect his life.

He saw an emotionless face appear above him and he closed his eyes against the rounds that penetrated his skull.

JD shouted as he saw Timothy go after the police officer lying on the ground. The first killing had happened so fast, JD's only reaction had been to flinch against the explosion of gunfire. But the young agent had been unhampered by the Flexi-cuffs that secured Ezra's wrists and when he saw the bodyguard rise JD knew what was about to happen. So did Ezra.

He knew JD would be unable to stop the second murder and he struggled to his feet, desperate to prevent his partner from becoming a third victim.

JD had only made it halfway to Timothy when he heard the two loud pops and saw the downed detective's body jerk from the violent attack. Suddenly Ezra was in front of him, yelling his name.

"JD! NO!"

With his hands bound behind his back, Ezra could only use his chest and shoulders to block JD's forward motion. The young man's wild eyes barely registered the face that appeared before him. His focus swept across Ezra and went straight to the bodyguard who had casually holstered his weapon and pulled a Leatherman tool from a small sheath on his belt before moving to free Aaron.

JD screamed over Ezra's shoulder. "You didn't have to kill him! What the fuck was that?! You didn't have to kill him!"

Ezra in turn, shouted at JD, struggling to get his attention even though their faces were only inches apart. "JD! STOP IT!"

Hazel eyes met green ones and JD's face was cut with shock and anger, his voice strained with emotion. "Christ, Ez, they were cops! They were cops!"

Ezra knew what JD meant. At that moment it didn't matter that the two detectives had turned They had been good once and nothing changed the fact that, just like Larabee's team, there had been countless times they had put their lives on the line because they had believed they could make a difference.

Ezra yelled at his partner, working to get through to the young man. "It's over! They're gone!" He spoke louder than he had meant. With his left ear still ringing from the shots that killed Hilliard, he found it difficult to hear himself. He took half a step back, reining himself in while trying to slow his breathing.

"They're gone," Ezra stated. He stared at his friend with a hard expression. "I need ya to be smart, JD, ya hear me?" His voice was strained but firm. "I need you right here."

JD noticed, for the first time, the spattering of blood across the southerner's chin, left cheek and shirt collar—droplets of red that sprayed when Detective Hilliard had been shot in the face at point-blank range. Ezra had seen the pistol come up and instinctively closed his eyes and turned his face away. It was all he could do.

With one hand, JD roughly brushed his long bangs back out of his eyes. He focused a deadly glare at Timothy. "This is fucked!"

The bodyguard was quick to reply. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Donovan. It's not like it's any big deal. Shit, Mr. Vargas has done Feds. Nothing's gonna come of this. We should just dump 'em in the trash."

Timothy had no time to defend himself from the attack. JD pushed past Ezra and tackled the bodyguard hard, sending them both to the floor. The youth landed two solid punches to the big man's face before Aaron's strong arms wrapped under JD's and yanked him back into a standing Full Nelson.

Ezra again rushed to intervene. This time however, he faced Timothy. He worked against the size and weight difference, trying to keep the man from going after JD, but he knew full well he wouldn't be able to do anything while his wrists were still hampered by the Flexi-cuffs.

"It's alright, he'll calm down! Let me talk to him, I just need to talk to him. Let's everybody just calm down."

Timothy was cradling his nose in one hand and blinking past watering eyes as he shouted at JD. "You stupid little fuck!"

JD struggled against the hold he was still locked into. "Stupid? I'm not the one who just murdered two cops!"

Vargas's icy voice cut through the din. "Gentlemen! TIMOTHY! I do not pay you to be a brawling street thug. You will not act like one."

JD was still breathing hard but he stopped resisting and Aaron cautiously released him. Ezra wasn't ready to turn his back on Timothy just yet, but he backed up enough to put a polite distance between the two of them.

Vargas spoke in a soothing tone. "JD, Ezra… This has no bearing on our business."

JD was stunned by what he was hearing. "No bearing?" He shook his head and the perversity of the situation forced a bitter laugh from him. "They were…." The young agent stopped himself. He needed to think like JD Donovan. "You don't just kill cops and walk away from it. They find you. I'm a wire man. I'm not goin' down for cop killing. I'm not going to prison because of him!" He stabbed a finger toward Timothy. "What were they doing here?! How did they know we were here?"

Vargas fixed Arthur with a look of suppressed fury. "I'm sure _someone_ has answers."

Arthur didn't register the gaze or the accusatory remark. He was still sitting on the floor, hands bound behind his back, staring with a shocked expression at the two dead bodies lying within feet of him.

Timothy wiped his nose with the back of his hand to check for bleeding and stared at JD. "Well, since you're so attached to them, kid, maybe I could cut 'em up and gift wrap them for you so you can take them home."

JD kept his voice level but spat an insult right back. "Being a butcher is about all you have the IQ for. You think Denver PD isn't gonna be after every person in this room? It's obvious you can't think five seconds into the future."

"JD." Ezra drawled out his partner's name in a warning tone.

Timothy stepped towards his antagonizer and showed a humorless smile. "I only need one second, and that's to pull the trigger."

"That's funny, I didn't think the reflexes of a trained monkey would be that good." JD turned to walk away, desperate for some fresh air.

"Oh, I got reflexes…." The sudden fire that lit the bodyguard's eyes made his intent clear to Ezra. Timothy reached for his HK and Ezra reacted instinctively to protect his partner. He couldn't use his hands and he knew he was too close to lash out with an effective kick, so street-fighting tactics took over. He swung his knee high, slamming it into the large man's stomach.

Timothy doubled over, his weapon forgotten. However, his adrenaline-fed anger only took an instant to shift targets. He forced himself upright and reflexively went on the attack, smashing his shoulder and forearm into Ezra's chest with a lineman's tackle.

The southerner took the hit hard. Tossed off his feet, he was thrown backwards and, unable to catch himself, landed awkwardly on his side. His head struck the concrete floor and he lay for a few seconds, dazed from the impact.

JD had turned when he had heard Timothy's last comment. His training and experience locked his focus onto the motion the bodyguard made toward his pistol, but Ezra was already responding. A second later JD watched the southerner hit the floor, but the young agent didn't trust that Timothy would have the presence of mind to stop the attack against Ezra simply because he was down.

JD shouted and made a move toward Timothy, only to have Aaron smoothly intervene. The situation had exploded out of control and Aaron considered it his duty to remedy that. He stepped in, securing JD in a tight chokehold. He expected a counterattack and was ready when it came.

The elbow to his stomach met with a twisting torso and tightened muscles and he sidestepped JD's heel, which aimed for the top of his foot. Aaron expertly increased the pressure on the young man's carotid artery until he felt the body slump into unconsciousness.

…

Author's notes: Hopefully, that delivered some good tension. If so, treat yourself to a sweet, humorous piece called "A Tangled Web" under Tidia's account. It's one I kinda helped co-author and, upon reading it again the other day, find pretty darn funny.


	9. Chapter 9

**PART NINE**

The first thing JD became aware of was a dull headache. He made a move to raise his hand to his temple but could not understand why the hand did not respond. Opening his eyes, it became apparent.

Two sets of plastic cable-wraps bound each wrist to the thick, flat arms of a wood chair—poor man's flexi-cuffs. He pulled hard against the bindings but only managed to redden the soft skin trapped by the plastic. An attempt to move his feet was just as futile and he realized his ankles were secured to the chair legs.

A gagging scream brought his mind to full attention. His head whipped up but a wave of relief followed when he noted Ezra to his right, bound in the same fashion. The southerner's face was void of emotion and his eyes gazed at an unseen point toward the far end of the hangar.

JD's heart beat faster as another scream pierced the air and he realized only Aaron was with them. The detectives' bodies were gone and two trails of smeared blood led into an office where the desperate cry had echoed from. Like a pig being slaughtered by wolves, Arthur's gasping shrieks rose to a fevered pitch.

The sound ripped through JD's body like an icy wave. He swallowed hard as his stomach rolled in reaction to the torturous screaming. Finally the noise dissolved into a gurgling series of gasps, followed by a single loud pop of gunfire, and then silence.

JD couldn't pull his eyes from the closed office door. Dorison had called Ezra by name, had mentioned busting him. Vargas would never believe Ezra wasn't in on the plan to steal from him. JD's brain raced. They had nothing. No bargaining power, no backup, and no way out.

The office door opened and JD wasn't sure what sickened him more—the faint red stains evident on Vargas's freshly wiped hands or the energized look on the man's face.

Timothy followed close behind, his face pale. Shutting the door behind him, he headed for the bathroom and did not return for several minutes.

…

Standing behind one of the Qwest vehicles, Buck tugged absentmindedly at his mustache while the fingers of his other hand drummed an incessant beat against one open rear door. He, like Rafe in the other communications company vehicle, hid his tactical vest under a blue technician's uniform. Cloaked under a lightweight, specially cut jacket was his shoulder-holstered Glock 22, and a Smith & Wesson SW99 at the small of his back.

If need be, the two would lead close surveillance or surprise infiltration. Until then it was all he could do to contain his nervous energy. He lasted in the driver seat of the other truck less than five minutes after Chris gave the order for the strange convoy to pull off the road. Now he hung around the back of the truck that contained Chris, Vin and Josiah.

He tried to fight off the thoughts crowding his mind. He could not deal with the realistic scenarios that darted in and away, snapping at the thread that held his hope for JD and Ezra's safety.

They were okay. He had to believe they were okay. They would be okay because they were lucky. Lucky Seven. You can't have luck if you don't have Seven. That's just the way it was. Ezra was the honey-man—walked smack into a bees' nest and came out with the honey. And the kid, well, JD had the luck of the Irish. Black Irish he was, and it fit damn perfectly with Larabee's outfit of Black Sheep. Couldn't have luck without Seven, and couldn't have Seven without luck.

Buck stood behind the truck, peering inside where his fellow agents sat, and listening as Ray verbalized what they were all thinking.

"For Chrissake, it's been over half an hour. We can't just sit here; there's gotta be something we can do!" He didn't even need to glance at the Senior FBI Agent sitting beside him to know he was getting a reproachful stare from his boss. "And don't give me that look, sir, because I know you're thinking the same thing."

Ray didn't voice what the other agents knew he wanted to add. _But for some of us it's way more personal._

Chris shared a look with Tyler. "What if we tapped into that air support you offered… scramble a chopper for some flyovers?"

Josiah interjected. "Vargas said Ezra would have time to be back in the city within three hours. And he said he had two DC-9s." He looked at Tyler. "Maybe your pilot knows what patches of land around here are out of the way enough to handle something like that?"

"Air traffic control should have a record of them in the area," Buck added.

"Yeah," Vin said, "but when did they land? If Vargas is ready for Ezra to pick up, then they've probably been down and gone for at least a little while."

Tyler looked at the man to his left. "James-"

"On it, sir." The FBI agent squeezed out of the truck to contact air traffic control.

Seconds later Chris's phone rang. Every eye was on him as he snatched the cell from one of his vest pockets. His face, however, registered only frustration and disappointment when he noted the incoming number.

"Hey Nate… it's alright, it's not your fault… Yeah, helluva surprise to us too. He had the stuff flown in to a private airstrip somewhere. JD was on the line with Josiah giving him directions and we lost 'em… No, I mean _lost_ lost. We can't reach them on the cell and we don't know where they're at other than somewhere off northbound 76… Us? Oh, we're pretty tough to miss—four trucks, two done up with the Qwest logo sitting on the side of I-76. We're just past Exit-"

"Tell 'im to stay there."

Chris glanced at Vin. "What?"

The Texan nodded toward the phone. "Nate. There's nothin' he can do for us here. Jus' tell him to stay at the office."

Confusion colored Chris's face. "Why?" Almost immediately he shook off his own question. "Never mind." He addressed Nathan once more. "Doc, we're gonna have you hold there." He paused a second before giving his reasoning. "Vin's got a feeling."

…

Everything was wrong. This wasn't how it worked. They hadn't screwed up, hadn't been overconfident, hadn't been careless. The nasty little voice in Ezra's head cut into his thoughts.

_Like hell. You call going into a buy at a moment's notice with a psychopath and an agent inexperienced in u.c., without secure back-up smart? You should have come up with a stall. You should have waited downtown till Buck and Vin showed up. You should have… You fucked up. Fucked up in the worst way possible. And it's not just you this time, is it?_

It wasn't right. Ian Maxwell Vargas is a Case Study. Ninth week at Quantico – Informants and Surveillance/Undercover Operations. Ian Vargas is a syllabus side-note. A photocopied handout and slide projector photos from 1983. He's the past. He's not real. He's a mental image, a dark memory. He's not flesh, not blood.

Ezra was aware of Timothy positioned over his right shoulder, and in his peripheral vision he could see Aaron over JD's left. Vargas stood, centered, behind the bound agents. Ezra felt a warm hand rest on the back of his neck. His sweat mixed with the slight stickiness clinging to Vargas's palm. He forced away the knowledge that it was from Arthur's dried blood.

"I am willing to make allowances," Vargas said. His palms gently pressed against the exposed skin just above their collars. "Arthur betrayed me. Simple, gullible men are easily influenced; it's not your fault he pulled you in."

His hands slid away before he slowly circled around to stand in front of them and he continued. "I'm only here to conduct business. I don't know why they targeted me. You were right in what you said earlier, John—those men didn't have to die. But that's what they chose." For a moment he seemed to lose his train of thought. "You have very pretty eyes."

JD dropped his gaze and retorted in a low voice. "Pretty sick of looking at you."

Ezra flinched inwardly. _Shut up, JD._ Eager to pull focus from his partner, he spoke up quickly.

"Ian… you're very correct. Those men were responsible for their own… unfortunate circumstances. Our desires are on par with yours. It's unfortunate to think that the poorly thought-out actions of others could negatively affect an affable business relationship worth so much money."

Vargas's attention had shifted to the southerner. Had Ezra time to think about it, he would have been aware that his mouth was running only about two seconds behind his brain. He and JD had precious little to bargain with so he did what came naturally to him, what he'd always done – he talked; he persuaded, convinced, flattered and bullshitted.

"You're an intelligent man. You know the murders of two police officers won't go unnoticed. I'm sure Timothy was not thinkin' of bringin' such trouble down upon you and your business activities. A man such as himself certainly knows that killin' cops, especially in today's patriotic climate, is not looked upon favorably.

"And with the U.S.'s policy of no statute of limitations on murder, things could get… awkward. Unless of course you allowed us to help you. I have local connections—people who owe me, very influential people whom I could rely upon to see the "truth" in a murder investigation such as this."

Ezra's words spun and danced with the poetic flow of a politician. "Arthur Pentilide was obviously a drug dealer who murdered two of Denver's finest when they unfortunately stumbled across one of his deals in progress. I'm sure it would be easy for investigators to draw the conclusion that Arthur, in turn, was killed and robbed by whichever Colombian connection he was dealin' with. And that individual has since fled back to South America, never to be located."

He tried to ignore how dry his mouth was. A line of perspiration trailed down between his shoulder blades and pricked at his spine. Vargas had been staring at him, unblinking, since he'd started speaking. Ezra couldn't tell what the man was thinking. He had no idea if Vargas was convinced of anything he had said. So he just kept talking.

"JD and I came here this afternoon to give you money, a very large sum of money. I don't see any reason why we can't still do that, while also takin' this other ugly entanglement off your shoulders. The U.S. is much too profitable of a place for you to lose a firm hold on. You just got back… There are billions here for you to make, there's no need to give it up so soon."

As soon as he spoke the last sentence Ezra realized his mouth had gotten ahead of his brain. _"You just got back"._ Ezra Simpson should not know anything about that. He prayed that Vargas had not caught it. The undercover man's experience taught him that dealers—whether drugs or weapons—had a tendency toward paranoia. Nothing beneficial would come from Vargas wondering why and how Ezra knew about his past. He tried to rectify the mistake.

"To be perfectly honest, Mr. Vargas, I did ask some of my long-standin' contacts what they knew about you. General consensus was that, while your more recent dealin's have been abroad, you are a heavy-weight, no matter the continent. I've been lookin' for a man such as you to help me supply my customers. The people who owe me favors, they will ensure that only Arthur's name is attached to Timothy's…overzealousness. I will see to it that you have no reason to abandon the fertile grounds of this part of the world."

Vargas locked eyes with the southerner, staring like a predatory animal readying to strike. He answered in a slow, deliberate tone.

"I have no plans to give this up anytime soon." His eyes flicked to the closed office door. "Things are just getting exciting for me. Coming and going from America is not as difficult as your Homeland Security would like people to believe."

He stepped forward, laying both hands gently on either side of Ezra's face. The undercover man desperately fought the instinct to pull back. Ian leaned in close, his lips no more than an inch from the agent's right ear and Ezra closed his eyes briefly as he heard the whisper. "It's as easy as slipping out of one's skin."

Vargas let his hands slide slowly away from the southerner's face and felt a charge as his tactile senses picked up the light film of perspiration now clinging to his fingertips.

JD knew Vargas had whispered something to Ezra, he just couldn't hear what. But one look at the southerner's physical reaction and JD felt a flush of warmth spread through his body. Ezra was scared.

The younger agent felt lost. Surely Ezra knew that Vargas had every intention of killing them once he got his money. Yet, the southerner offered it to him as if it was nothing more than a gift of good faith. JD knew he couldn't do the transfer. It was the only thing keeping them alive.

Vargas stepped between the two bound men and eased himself to a crouching position in front of them. He rested each of his hands on one of theirs – JD's right, Ezra's left – and lightly stroked the backs of their hands in a calming motion.

JD risked a glance downward to where Vargas studied the skin, tracing lines between the knuckles with his fingertips. He seemed oblivious to the tough, plastic bands that cut into their wrists and secured them to the arms of the solid, wood chairs.

The surrealistic aspects of the moment made JD feel as if he was watching the scene play out on a movie screen. His eyes flicked to Ezra. The southerner stared at the far wall of the hangar, just as he had when Arthur's death screams filled the cavernous space. The blank expression on his face disturbed JD more than he wanted to admit.

It made the young agent feel that his partner was pulling away from him, from reality. Consequently, he felt startled a split-second later when Ezra's eyes locked on his. The southerner took in a soft breath of air and quietly released it, relaxing the jaw muscles he'd set so tightly.

JD felt like he was being guided, blessed, prayed for and informed when the now-vibrant eyes communicated with him. He could practically hear Ezra's voice. _Play it easy. Stay neutral. We don't set off this psychopath and we may just get a bit of an emotional upperhand._

"John."

The quiet voice made JD's skin crawl. He forced himself to look Vargas in the eye.

"John, you're the answer here. You are the solution to everything."

The disturbing rhythmic sensation of Vargas's fingertips across the trapped hands never stopped as he explained in a gentle voice. "It's all in there on that piece of paper next to the computer. A simple business deal—the money from Ezra's account to my accounts. And that's all you have to do. That's all I care about. Then you and Ezra are free to go. I go my way and the two of you continue on with life."

From his crouched position Vargas looked up into JD's face and read the lines of doubt which creased the soft skin around the hazel eyes. "It's an easy decision, John. You just finish what you started and you both walk out. You can make that happen."

Vargas felt as if the young man seated before him wavered on a thin line between distrust and knowing freedom was as easy as he said. A few seconds passed and Vargas sensed JD moving to the wrong side of the line. He spoke again, softly and sincerely.

"You're not doing it for me. By tomorrow morning I will be nothing to you. You're doing this for your friend. Ezra needs you to do this."

Without warning, Vargas locked his left hand tightly around Ezra's little finger and wrenched it violently back. JD heard a muffled pop just a split second before his partner released a harsh, violent scream then sharply drew in a desperate gasp of air. Ragged breaths shook the undercover agent's body for several seconds before his head dropped forward and he bit into his lower lip.

JD pulled against his restraints, lunging toward Vargas, and dragging the chair he was secured to several inches across the concrete floor. "Son of a BITCH!"

A massive arm instantly wrapped around JD's throat from behind, forming a chokehold, and Aaron's other hand jerked back a fistful of JD's shoulder-length hair. Vargas had already risen and taken a step away. He focused a hard stare on the younger man.

"That is nothing, JD! Absolutely NOTHING!" Spit flew from his lips with the savage outburst. He grabbed the young man's jaw hard with one hand. Strong fingers pressed painfully into JD's skin. "You have no idea how much pain a man can go through and still be alive. Do you really think you can handle watching that happen?" Vargas paused and let the thought sink in. The grip on JD's face softened into a cradling touch. When Vargas spoke again it was the same gentle tone with which he'd started.

"Just finish what you began, John, and you both walk out. It's that easy…You can do that."

Aaron released his hold on JD and Vargas drew back, looking at his bodyguards before motioning towards Ezra. "Move him to the other room." His sharp, gray eyes flicked to JD. "I'll give you a moment to make your decision."

Ezra's restraints were cut and he was hauled to his feet. The shock of the break and the stark realization of how desperate their situation had just become left him reeling. He fought to keep his legs under him.

JD's anger exhibited itself as a violent tremor that shook through his lean frame. As he watched his partner be pulled from the chair, his tongue betrayed the control he tried to maintain. "Ez…."

His voice sounded pleading and tight in his ears. He made a silent appeal to his friend. _C'mon, look at me. Just let me see that cocky grin that always bugs the heck out of Chris. If I can see that, I'll know you're okay. I need to know your okay…If you're okay, we're gonna get out of this._

The southerner locked eyes with his partner and JD stared back, intent to communicate. A fine sheen of perspiration covered pale features, but the breathy voice held a solid message.

"Be smart, JD." Then he was guided away from the younger man.

At that moment, JD didn't care if Vargas had asked him to crack the Federal Reserve, he would have found a way.

…

Ezra was unsure how many minutes passed. He'd been dumped in the bare, windowless room and left alone. He rested where he'd been dropped, in a hunched over position on his knees, with his right elbow resting on the cold concrete floor. He pressed his left arm carefully to his chest. Pain engulfed his hand and shot jabbing needles up his forearm, a detached part of his mind was surprised at how quickly the swelling had progressed.

He willed himself not to look at the three bodies lying in the far corner of the room. The scent of blood permeated the air and he breathed through his mouth to avoid it. Thoughts ran through his brain. _Please. God, not like this. Not JD._

His mind's eye recalled the photographs he had seen years ago of the two DEA agents. The medical examiner's report that had been included in the Academy case study had not been written to scare reality into students, but it did. The M.E.'s findings showed that the men most likely endured four to six hours of torture before succumbing to death from blood loss as a result of having thin layers of flesh carved from their bodies.

Pain, stark fear, and tension rolled through him. His stomach tightened and with a harsh shudder he gagged violently and vomited up lunch. He coughed hard as his throat rejected the acidic assault.

With a struggling effort he worked to control the short, shallow breaths, which invaded his body and made him dizzy.

Sitting up, he released a deep breath of air, spat sharply and wiped his mouth on the right sleeve of his suit jacket. Under the coat, the slate gray shirt he wore adhered uncomfortably to his back, soaked with what was now a cold sweat. He had purchased the shirt not three weeks earlier. Ezra Standish suddenly felt very, very pissed.

_One hundred and fifteen goddamn dollars worth of Forzieri silk and it will be a miracle if it ever again smells any better than a wet hound dog._

He silently repeated himself. _Not like this._ Though now it was a defiant statement.

When the office door opened, Ezra had repositioned himself with his back against the wall opposite the door. His knees were drawn up and he clutched his left upper arm tight against his chest while the throbbing left hand rested on his right shoulder.

JD tentatively crossed to him, ignoring not only Aaron, who remained in the open doorway, but also the bodies and blood in the corner of the room. He crouched before the southerner, his eyes flicking to the ugly result of Vargas's persuasive methods. Ezra had done his best to splint his pinkie against his ring finger with his tie but it was mostly just a wrap. Swelling and blackish-purple bruising extended up to the wrist.

A lump formed in JD's throat and he swallowed to force it away. Force away the feelings of incompetence and fear that threatened to overwhelm him if he acknowledged them. In his hands, he held a wet, wrung-out shop towel and a can of Coke. With the gentlest touch he could manage, he slipped the ice cold aluminum can under Ezra's wounded hand, wedging it against the shoulder while maneuvering it as close to the broken digit as he could.

The slight movement caused Ezra to gasp and JD winced and breathed an apology. He knew it was a poor replacement for ice but he had to try something; and it had given him an excuse to check on his partner. JD attempted a smile. "Sorry…no RC."

Ezra returned the fragile grin. His teammates relished in teasing the southerner about his guarded secret penchant for the occasional Vanilla Moon Pie with an RC Cola. Nathan defended him though. "It's a southern thing," he would say. The others would just never get it.

JD focused on folding the small cold towel and carefully laying it over his friend's hand. His voice was soft when he spoke. "I don't know if it will help or not. It's all I could get." He scanned Ezra's face for a second then cast his gaze downward, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry."

He began to draw back but Ezra caught the young man's right hand with his own and focused intently on him. "It helps."

JD's eyes remained closed, his head lowered, and Ezra noted the slight negative shake of his head. JD still did not look up but tightly squeezed the southerner's hand. Several seconds passed and Ezra eased his hand away in order to lay his palm to the side of his friend's face.

"JD."

The young man didn't move. Ezra slid his hand down to cup the back of JD's neck. With light pressure, he gently shook JD's head, encouraging the other man to look at him.

"JD."

Finally a pair of bloodshot eyes rose to meet Ezra's gaze and JD clamped a hand over the one resting at his collar. "We're walkin' outta this," Ezra whispered.

JD pushed out a harsh breath and replied in the same soft tone. "He's not gonna-"

Ezra cut him off. Releasing his hold, the southerner grabbed a fist of JD's shirt front. "Can you do it?" he hissed.

"What… the transfer? Of course. And then he's-"

"Then you do it!" Ezra whispered sharply. He relaxed his fist and pressed his open palm against his friend's sweat-dampened shirt. He felt the pounding of the younger agent's heart and wondered who was more scared – JD, because of his inexperience, or himself, _because_ of his experience. "That transfer goes through and his deal is sealed." _We'll have him dead to rights on a major weapons transaction._

He addressed JD in a soft voice. "It's all we've got. He doesn't know." _Doesn't know we're ATF._ "Take all the time you can. Keep your eyes open for anything we can use. And you keep repeatin' to yourself, a thousand times if you have to, 'we are walkin' out of this.' Because we are… come Hell or high water."

Suddenly, JD's eyes widened. "Or rain," he whispered.

"What?"

JD patted Ezra's hand, which still pressed against his chest, and then gripped it firmly before resting it on his friend's knee. "Hang in there, Ez. I just got an idea."

The young man stood and walked back to join the bodyguard waiting for him in the open doorway. Ezra was once more left alone in a room with silence, prayers, and three dead bodies.


	10. Chapter 10

**PART 10**

Author's Notes: So, I use a little technology that's pretty much, oh, pivotal to the plot. I think I got it right but if you find yourself saying, "Hey, that wouldn't work that way," just put on your suspension-of-disbelief goggles. Lord knows we fans have to do that enough with professional tv writers.

Also, my computer got a virus this morning and I won't be able to post another part for a week. Sorry!

…

A fierce kick sent a plastic recycling bin shooting through the air to bounce against JD's desk. The handful of administrative staff at the far end of the office raised only the slightest of glances toward the tall agent in the Team Seven bullpen. They knew the situation. They were ready for anything that might be asked of them but none of them would approach the area unbidden.

Nathan immediately regretted the impulsive action. He ran a hand down his face, rubbed his eyes and crossed to retrieve the blue bin. _Kicking a bucket's not gonna change anything._ He inwardly winced at the choice of words. As he righted the recycle container, his eyes fell to a little sketch he had left on JD's desk—five fire-fighting clowns rushing, with a hose, in the opposite direction of a fire where two other clowns were trapped atop a building, one shouting an extended cry of "Help!"

He snatched up the sketch and crumpled it into a ball before slamming it into the bin he so recently kicked. The sandwich he had purchased sat, untouched, in its white paper bag on his desk. Frustration and worry had purged hunger from his body. Of all the times to not be at the office, to not have his phone. And now all he could do was sit and wait, offering no assistance. He hated feeling useless.

He dropped into JD's chair and the young man's last words to him echoed in his head. _"…and if you see a long yell for help running down the screen—come get me out. I don't trust any of these clowns…."_

For a second, his heart felt like it stopped. He grabbed for the computer mouse, shaking it to awaken the dark computer screen before him. "Come on, JD. I'm listenin'."

…

The air in the hangar office was stifling. JD sat at the laptop and Vargas remained standing close behind him while Timothy filled the doorway. Between the warmth and the hovering, JD felt like a dying animal in the desert; the vultures' eyes were locked on him.

"So, just these three accounts?" he asked. " 'Cause I can blanket more if you want." He reached for the piece of paper next to the computer and the trembling of his hand was evident. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Vargas saw it too. JD forced himself to look directly at the two men and splayed the shaking fingers. "Don't suppose either of you fellas smoke? I quit two days ago and all I got to show for it is this."

He prayed they would buy the lie and not suspect that the tremors were linked to the bold plan he was about to attempt.

Vargas's expression remained neutral but he looked at Timothy and nodded. The bodyguard stepped to the doorway and called out to Aaron. "Hey. Smokes?" Several seconds later a swish accompanied a small red and white box sliding to a stop at Timothy's feet. He passed the pack to his boss.

As he handed the cigarettes to JD, Vargas's lips formed a smile but it struck the young agent as perfunctory. A thought hit him and he did his best to channel Buck. With his eyes still up toward Vargas, he leaned forward as he took the pack, and let his fingers linger on Vargas's. He held the other man's gaze for several seconds while adding a bright smile. "Thanks, Ian, you're a life-saver."

Vargas's smile warmed and JD forced himself to punctuate the thanks with a light slap to the other man's thigh. He kept his body toward Vargas and tried to look practiced as he fished out a cigarette. With a match from the book that had been tucked inside the pack, he lit the tip of the Marlboro.

Most of his Southie friends in Boston had smoked since they were in middle school. For a second, the rough smoke that heated JD's throat as he inhaled took him back to hot New England summer nights. There were a handful of times he had taken drags from friends' Lucky Strikes while trying to impress a girl with his epic coolness. It was a thousand years ago.

He held the glowing stick aloft. "Cigarettes and computers, the only things that ever helped me relax." He hoped it sounded true. "You guys ever do any programming?" He didn't wait for an answer but observed the other two men carefully. "Man, C++ and Ada were my first late night loves." He issued a light laugh and tapped Vargas thigh again. "And who here remembers LISP?"

The man showed a small, sincere smile. "Never an interest that caught my attention."

"Yeah," JD said, "I was pretty much a wicked bad geek. You guys were hanging with the jocks, am I right?" He summoned a mental picture of Casey to help him conjure a warm smile up at Vargas. It was returned and JD hoped he had managed to get the man's mind on something other than killing him and Ezra.

He spun toward the laptop. If they answered his last question, it didn't matter. The blank look in Vargas's eyes and the split second furrowed brow on Timothy when LISP was mentioned sealed the deal. He had free rein to do whatever he needed.

He laid the cigarette atop an old Coke can on the desk. "Let me just walk ya through what I'm doing here." As he typed, a flow of convoluted "computer speak" rushed from his brain to his lips. Ezra's voice rang through his head. _"Never lie when the truth will do."_ He did tell them what he was doing as he did it; he just altered the reasoning. He may as well have been explaining Loop quantum gravity to seven-year-olds, in French.

He reached for the cigarette and used the time it took for a drag and an exhale to scan the general area in his eye-line for what he sought. A pilot's map hung on the wall directly in front of him. It could not have been more perfect. _Yes! Thank you, God._

…

"_Wait, Nate, back up. You have him where? Remote what?" _

Nathan unconsciously pressed his cell phone tight to his ear and could picture Chris's frown and furrowed brow. He forced himself to slow down as he stared at the computer screen. A minute earlier, he had been watching JD's monitor as an invisible hand opened a new Word document and odd strings of letters and numbers poured forth. Seconds later, he was on the phone with Chris.

"Wherever they're at, JD is on a computer." He spoke loud, knowing he was on speaker phone in the truck. "He's gotta be going through a browser to access Remote Desktop. But I'm not sure what he's doing. None of this makes sense."

"_What doesn't make sense? What are you seeing?"_

"It says rain and then an equal-sign, then skips a line and repeats that five more times."

"_Rain equals, Rain equals. What does that mean? Rain equals what?"_

Through the phone, Nathan heard Buck. _"Big, big trouble! Yeah! You go, kid! That's my boy!"_

"Hang on, fellas, there's more… 'Dumb and Dumber.' Then two dash two equal-sign zero."

Several seconds of silence passed and then Vin spoke. _"Aw shit, minus not dash. Two _minus_ two equals zero…I think Dorison and Hilliard are dead."_

"_What?" _Ray exclaimed. _"What the hell were they doing there?"_

"_Maybe something Arthur planned,"_ Josiah offered.

"_It doesn't matter," _Chris spat. _"Nate…?"_

"Hang on, Chris, trying to figure it out…$Tand1$h 423 and a period. Then KevinCostner comma 409 x, or maybe a multiplication sign, two comma pound sign 1. Then RT 410." He ran a hand roughly over his head. "I don't know. I don't know what he means!"

Tyler's voice cut in. _"Kevin Costner? Do you guys use code?"_

"Code!" Nathan blurted. "That's it! Computer code! Messages. 423…um, 423, think, think, think. 423. Locked! It means the resource being used is locked. Those aren't dollar signs, that's for s! S-T-a-n-d-1 for the letter i-S-h. Standish 423."

Chris ventured a guess, _"Locked up, maybe? Could be they've been separated."_

"409," Nathan said. "We'll say multiplied by two. 409—conflict. Kevin Costner, Conflict times two?"

"_There've been two fights?" _Josiah puzzled out. _"Two sources of conflict?"_

Ray could be heard in the background. _"Kevin Costner? Okay, um, Dances With Wolves? Bull Durham? The Bodyguard? Waterworld?"_

"_The Bodyguard!" _Vin answered. _"Bodyguard times two. Janquist and the other guard are there."_

"Number sign!" Nathan added. "It's not a pound sign; it's number one. Vargas. Okay, last one is the letter R and the letter T next to each other and 410. Let's see, 410 means the resource you're looking for isn't available anymore—permanently gone. RT 410…RT 410."

"_Artie's dead too,"_ Buck said. _"Christ almighty, Chris, he's on his own."_

…

JD moved a hand from the keyboard to take up his cigarette. He pulled a long drag and held the smoke for a second before making a show of blowing it into the air. He knew neither Vargas nor Timothy could tell he was not really inhaling. The last thing he needed was a coughing fit to belie his implied severe habit. He dropped the near-finished butt into the Coke can and heard the hiss of the tip hitting liquid.

He grabbed the pack and lit up another. By filling the room with as much smoke as he could, JD hoped to add more distraction for the two non-smokers. He kept on with his fast chatter as he stalled for time.

"What you're looking at here, Ian, is a safety buffer. I'm routing through proxy servers all around the world. DumbandDumber, that one is in Nigeria. Standish is in Paris. Kevin Costner, New Delhi. Did you know the Indians love Kevin Costner? Batshit crazy for him, who knew? The proxys make it impossible for the Feds to figure out where the transaction came from. They'll still be chasing their tails while you're three deals down the road. The numbers are computer code for what I want done…close the backdoors I've opened, delete the string after the satisfiable range has been authenticated."

JD was now just slinging nonsensical phrases to explain his code. As he prattled on, he glanced again at the pilot's map pinned on the wall in front of him. His eyes bounced repeatedly from map to screen to make sure he accurately transcribed the tiny numbers that he needed. He could feel his nerves start to clatter again and he reined his chatter back in. _C'mon, please tell me someone is getting this._

…

"I'm getting more, Chris! RDF on Jag. 302 underscore us. It's written like the word 'us', then period. LatiN 40.168817&LonnW 104.37193. What the…? I don't recognize this. I mean, 302 is temporary redirect, like where something is found. But the other numbers, that's all too long to be code the way he's written it."

"_Just start at the beginning, Nate," _Josiah said.

"RDF on Jag…gotta be the Jaguar. RDF, all caps, like initials."

"_No,"_ Josiah answered, _"abbreviation. Radio direction finder. The Vega! Jag isn't for the car, it's probably for Ezra; he's still wearing the body-pack transmitter from lunch. If Vargas is watching what JD is doing he can't type Ezra's name. RDFs track transmitters."_

"_A body-pack isn't going to send a strong enough signal," _Ray said. _"We'd have to have some idea of where to look."_

Nathan read aloud what they had figured. "So, he's saying, 'track the Vega using RDF, find us here'. Then LatiN and LonnW—the n and w are capitalized—followed by the numbers. Write 'em down. Maybe if you see them they'll make sense. L-a-t-i-capital N 40.168-"

"_Latitude North!" _Vin nearly shouted. "_He gave us their coordinates."_

"_Nate," _Chris started, but his teammate cut him off.

"All ready on it, Chris. Hang tight, I'm lookin' up the location now." In the background, he heard Tyler scrambling his tactical air unit as Chris communicated with the inter-agency teams in the other vans. "Wait, he's giving us something else. M7 remote back two roger comma one four y comma two four n."

Buck answered almost immediately. _"One for yes, two for no. Nate, you type him a big ol' hell-yes-number-one that that's a roger from Los Siete Magnificos! Fuck yeah, kid, hang on, we're comin'!"_

…

JD retrieved his second cigarette from where it rested on the Coke can, took a drag and exhaled into the room while turning toward Vargas. He leaned back in an attempt to block the monitor and fed Vargas some more meaningless babble. "Almost done with the safe routes, Ian. The final server just has to process the locking access. We need to wait about ten or fifteen minutes to see if we pick up any tracers."

He knew how long a hack, a link, and a transfer should take. And he had to assume Vargas had looked over the shoulder of his previous hacker a time or two. JD figured it would be a good time to explain the amount of time he was taking.

"Other guys aren't careful enough, too full of themselves. Think they can't be caught. They just hook up, hit a couple of proxies and transfer. But do you know how easy it is for even in-house security to notice that? Let alone if it's the Feds and they're actually looking. Now, the way I do it takes a lot longer but it's tight, ya know? I learned from this old-school Russian guy, he was wicked 'leet—Escher with a hard drive. He was like, seventy, had never been busted for anything. Taught me to fly low and slow." Barely taking a breath he hitched a thumb toward the door. "You wouldn't mind if I just real quick check on-"

"That can wait, John. The sooner we're done here, the sooner the two of you can get on the road."

JD didn't expect Ian to let him see Ezra but talking was buying him the time he needed. "Yeah. No, I understand." Another drag, another exhale of smoke. "Could I maybe get one of those Cokes? I got a pissah of a headache. Caffeine helps, ya know. If not, it's okay, I understand."

Vargas was still close enough to touch and JD rested his hand briefly on the man's forearm while looking up at him with, what he hoped was, a kind smile.

"I can allow that."

JD wasn't sure what emotion he saw in Vargas's pale gray eyes. He relaxed a fraction when Vargas looked at Timothy to relay the request to Aaron.

"Thanks, Ian. I really appreciate it." To cover his nerves, he took another pull off the cigarette and brushed a hand through his hair. He had not realized how heavy with sweat it was. "Let's see where things are at."

He turned back to the monitor and barely contained an emotional response. The screen was clear except for the number one.

…

The trucks idled on the side of a rural road, close to the coordinates given by JD. The muffled voice came down on them like a voice from Heaven. _"Air Support One to Ground One…RDF found a signal."_

A whoop from Buck covered the next few words but they received the information they needed.

"…_quarter mile off the road that's up ahead of you on your right. IR indicates three individuals in center area, two around south room. Very little movement. Three other unknowns grouped in south room—heat signatures are very low—could be a false read. Be advised, there is no approach cover. Recommendation for Ground One to access solo. Copy?"_

Tyler replied. "Copy, that, Air Support One. Give us some room and stand by. Over."

"_Will circle around, Ground One. Give us a shout out when you need us, sir. Air Support One over and out."_

Tyler eyed Chris. "Your men, your call, Larabee."

Chris nodded a thank you to the FBI Senior Agent and clicked his mic button to address the teams. "The aerial infrared backs up our suspicions—our agents and three suspects. Ground One will go in first. Agent Martinez, I need you and your Qwest uniform up here. Martinez and Wilmington will initiate a soft engage. SOP for enclosed conditions. Ground Three and Four, you're on sweep. A reminder—we will secure our agents to keep their aliases intact. I want suspects separated from them asap. Questions?"

Silence was the only reply and Chris closed communications. The truck's passenger door opened from the outside and Rafe smiled at his DEA teammate. "Mind if I take your seat, there, Marco?"

"Just as long as you don't take all the fun," the younger agent answered. He slipped from his spot and closed the door after Rafe was situated. "Keep it tight, mi 'mano." He held up a hand and his friend lightly high-fived him before their fingers interlaced for a quick shake.

"Como siempre," Rafe answered.

…

Nerves nearly pushed Ezra's phone from JD's hand as he fished it from his back pocket. He had slipped it there earlier when they had left the Jaguar and though it was useless to make a call from, he could use it buy more time.

"I just need to-" His attempt to stand was frozen by Timothy reaching for his pistol. JD quickly held the phone out. "The number…Ezra's account. It's his phone. I-I don't know where he has his account number stored." Despite desperately wanting to go and check on his partner, to give him hope, he thought it best to stay in front of the laptop and keep Vargas's attention.

The phone was passed to Timothy who returned a moment later and handed it back to JD.

"Thanks," JD said, looking at Vargas to avoid staring at the bruises under Timothy's eyes. He may have only landed two punches earlier but the damage was obvious. He said a silent thank you for the lack of a mirror in the office. Apparently, Timothy didn't realize how he looked. JD dropped back into the chair and knew he was out of stalls. He tapped the screen of Ezra's phone to bring it to life. He had to make the transfer.

…

Buck had forced himself to keep the truck speed around five mph during the bumpy ride down the dirt road to the hangar. Anger and apprehension rolled through him when he spotted the Jaguar.

He took advantage of the large area in front of the hangar to pull the truck around until the rear of the vehicle faced a small door. He knew his teammates and the other federal agents in the truck were itching to bust through. But _he_ was going to be first to the fight.

…

"You're a very talented young man, John." Vargas laid a hand on JD's shoulder and the agent wondered if his flinch registered. He knew Vargas could tell the transfer was complete but JD attempted one more play for time. He glanced up and over his shoulder, lighting up yet another cigarette while laying down another line of irrelevant speech. "I just need to run one final control to reroute the paths away from the proxies' backdoors."

"Almost time for you gentlemen to be going on your way." Vargas withdrew his hand from JD's shoulder and looked at Timothy. "Have Ezra join us."

JD knew the odds were nearly non-existent that Vargas would actually let them walk out. A brief thought flitted through his brain. _Well, even if we die and he gets away, at least he won't have gotten any real money from us._ He shook off the notion and again took up the silent chant that had buzzed in his head since he had spoken with Ezra.

_We are walking out of this. We are walking out of this. We are-_

The sound of a heavy truck engine stopped his breath in his chest. From somewhere outside the office, Aaron called to his boss. "Mr. Vargas, a Qwest truck just pulled up."

"A what?"

"Qwest," JD piped in, barely able to contain his emotions. It was a coincidence delivered from God. Dorison and Hilliard had taken out the phones, but Vargas and his men probably would not be aware the phone company could not have knowledge of that. "Communications company." His team could not have chosen a better cover.

JD could see Aaron and Ezra standing now in the middle of the main room, focused on the door. The guard stood behind with a hold on his prisoner's left wrist and a pistol pressed to Ezra's spine. The southerner's unsteady stance indicated that the grip on his wounded limb was not a gentle one.

A voice from outside nearly brought JD to his feet. He quickly brought the cigarette to his mouth to cover any emotion and left it clamped between his lips.

"Hello?" Buck called out, affably, "Anybody home?"

A second sound—a solid double click at JD's right ear—dragged his attention back to his immediate predicament. Vargas held one of the detective's weapons next to JD's head, and his left hand fell heavily on the agent's left shoulder. JD took note, however, that the pistol was pointed distractedly toward the laptop's monitor. He didn't want to risk any movement so he tried to ignore the cigarette smoke that drifted up into his eyes.

...

As soon as I get my laptop virus-free I'll rescue my trapped stories and post the next chapter. But it will probably be a week.


	11. Chapter 11

**PART 11**

Aurthor's note: Thanks to a jump drive and a second laptop I was able to get my stories off the infected machine and can post the final two parts. I had wanted to pimp two things but can only remember one and that is Little Black Rook's vid on youtube "Ezra Standish - Atlanta to Denver".

Thank you to everyone who has left feedback and who is following this little tale. Sorry it couldn't be longer, and I know the fellas don't get the action they deserve but apparently my muse wanted JD to shine.

...

Ezra sat on the cold cement floor, his back against the wall. He had been staring at the door but its movement caught him by surprise. Aaron stood in the doorway. Ezra sized up, just for an instant, his chances of taking the man down. Just as quickly, he realized the stupidity of that thought. With his left hand painfully useless and the real possibility of JD being used against him if he attempted anything, Ezra realized he would have to trust in whatever idea his partner had formulated earlier.

Aaron stared at him from the doorway. "Let's go."

Ezra could not prevent a nervous smile from surfacing. "Normally, that wouldn't be an issue, but I confess, I'm not feelin' all that well. I'm not sure that standin' would-"

Aaron's hand moved to his pistol. It was more than enough impetus for Ezra. _So much for a stall._ He pushed himself to his feet and moved to the door. Once outside his cell, his eyes darted around the hangar, judging the distance to the outside door, toward the office to try to get a glimpse of JD, scanning every surface for a potential weapon.

A deep rumble made him shake his head in an attempt to clear the phantom noise. But when it did not fade he realized it had come from outside. Aaron reacted by grabbing Ezra's left forearm and jerking him into position like a shield. The southerner gasped and bit down on his lower lip in a futile attempt to channel the pain radiating up his arm. He was vaguely aware of something hard pressed against his spine. Between the grip and the gun at his back, it was clear that his guard was not going to tolerate resistance.

Aaron's fingers tightened around Ezra's wrist, causing him to swallow down a wave of nausea. What rose to the surface, however, was a strength that kept him on his feet. Then came the undeniable, overly-loud voice of Buck Wilmington and Ezra had only one thought.

_We are walkin' out of this._

…

The beauty of communications employee uniforms was the number of things you could secure to a workbelt without raising suspicion. Buck itched to wrap his hand around the small black metal cylinder in the pouch at his right hip. He focused instead on the door before him. With a quick nod to Rafe, who hung off to his right, Buck shouted a greeting.

"Hello? Anybody home?"

He knocked solidly on the door and tensed when it pushed open from the inside, revealing a tall muscular man, with two developing black eyes, who filled the doorway. Buck thanked the heavens that the huge smile he revealed was not out of place; just as long as the bodyguard didn't learn it was because of his bruises.

"Howdy!" His volume was half again as loud as normal. "Sorry to bother you, sir. We're from Qwest Communications. We've had service interruptions throughout this sector and line traces are showing the stoppages are related to a recent severe power spike at this address."

He shifted in an attempt to see inside without seeming like that was what he was doing. His eyes locked with Ezra's just for an instant. Despite the southerner looking like the only thing keeping him standing was pure will, there was an unwavering intensity in his gaze. Buck refreshed his over-the-top customer service smile.

"We won't interrupt or nothin'. We don't need to come in."

_Hand to pouch._

"Just have to check the exterior connectors and run a stun-out." His gaze flitted to Ezra just long enough to see that his comment had been heard.

_Can out._

He turned and called to his partner. "Hey Rafe!"

_Pull pin._

"STUN OUT!"

_Throw!_

…

Ezra knew what was coming. He also knew that Buck had no clue there was a gun at the southerner's back. The only idea that came to him was going down _without_ a fight. Buck shouted and Ezra made himself a dead weight, dropping to the left and hoping that the flash-bang would not cause Aaron to pull the trigger before Ezra was clear. He could not hold back the pain-induced yell as his momentum tugged his forearm from Aaron's grip.

…

The stun grenade shot through the gap over the guard's head as Buck slammed the door shut. Even with his hearing buffeted by earplugs the loud 'POP' and slight elevation of atmospheric pressure hit him. He knew that inside, the victims' sensory overload and disorientation would only give the team five or six seconds, but that was all they needed.

Behind him, the truck had already released the cavalry. With weapon drawn, Buck yanked open the door. He felt Rafe's hand on his shoulder as they rushed in, keeping low and maintaining in-line formation. Multiple voices of the other agents echoed behind them.

"Federal Agents! Down on the ground! NOW! Everybody face down!"

They all knew the warehouse occupants most likely couldn't fully decipher the words thanks to ringing ears. But at least no one could say they had not announced themselves properly.

…

The instant JD heard Buck shout the warning words for the flash-bang he closed his eyes and whipped his head to the left, stabbing Vargas's hand with the cigarette clutched between his teeth. The hand on his shoulder retracted instantly but any verbal reaction was drowned out by a concussive, exploding BANG.

JD thought he heard a second one, much closer, but he had no time to process it. Blinding white light seemed to sear though his closed lids as he threw himself to the floor and scrambled away from where he thought Vargas was.

…

At the door, Buck was on Timothy while the man was still stumbling backwards. With a forward sweeping leg kick, he brought the guard to his knees before grabbing him with one hand by the back of the neck and driving him face first to the cement floor.

"Do not resist!" he yelled, planting a knee into the man's back. "Hands behind your head!"

Josiah, Ray, and Tyler were there a second later to take over. "Go!" Josiah instructed. "We got this one."

Buck sprinted toward the office that he had seen straight back from the door. To the right, Rafe and Marco already had the other bodyguard prone and in flexi-cuffs. Chris had dropped to one knee beside Ezra while visually sweeping the surroundings, pistol out. He shouted instructions to the agents pouring in behind him.

"Ground Three, secure the upstairs! Ground Four, those rooms!"

With three agents each on the bodyguards, they were hustled outside. Beside Chris, Ezra was curled on his side with Vin crouched at the southerner's back, one reassuring hand on his shoulder while the other patted him down for injuries. Already, calls were being announced by the sweep teams.

"This room, clear!" "Back hall, clear!"

Chris secured his pistol and turned his attention to Ezra, who was now on his back, blinking rapidly. Chris and Vin exchanged a look when they saw their friend's swollen finger, the makeshift splint, and blood splatter on his shirt and jaw. Chris gripped Ezra's shoulders and tried to get through to him. "Ezra?"

From the first room, an agent called to him. "Agent Larabee, you need to see this!"

"Damn it," he hissed. He looked at Vin. "Stay with him."

"Ain't movin'."

As Buck had left the first bodyguard to his teammates, he had seen in the office the legs of someone on their hands and knees. _Vargas._

He rushed to the room with a single intention. His focus landed on JD, who was on the floor and halfway behind the desk, hands pressed to his head but in one piece. A pistol lay inches from Vargas's hand and Buck kicked it toward the back wall. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the other man's right forearm and folded it backwards, adding to what the flash-bang had done to disrupt Vargas's equilibrium. Buck slammed one tactical boot between his prisoner's shoulder blades, sending him to the cement.

"You come off that floor and I will put a bullet through your skull!"

Black-clad bodies rushed in behind him and Buck knew the other trucks had arrived. FBI agents swarmed on Vargas, locking the man's wrists with tight plastic bands and hauling him outside.

"Somebody bag that," Buck said, pointing to the handgun he had kicked away from Vargas. He had already secured his Glock in its holster and spun toward JD. Grabbing him under the arms, he slid him toward the opposite wall.

The assault on JD's eyes, ears, and balance forced from him a defense reaction. He struck out against the strong grip, driving an elbow backward. But when it connected with the distinct firmness of a tactical vest his demeanor shifted instantly. He twisted around, rubbing at his flash-blind eyes and blinking hard.

"Kid, it's me! It's Buck. Just relax!"

"Josiah?" he shouted, overcompensating to hear himself over the high-pitched whine in his ears. He wildly threw out a hand, catching the other man square in the mouth. The mustache told him everything he needed to know. "Buck!"

A sumo wrestler would have been put to shame by the strength of JD's hug. Laughter, bordering on fanatical, bounced off the walls. JD, however, suddenly drew back, a frantic look on his face.

"Ezra?" he yelled. "Where's Ez? You got him?"

"He's okay, kid, we got him."

"What?"

Buck wrapped his hands around his roommate's and folded the fingers into a thumbs-up sign. "He's good."

A weary smile spread across JD's face as Buck hauled him to his feet. The younger agent continued to blink hard.

"You should be getting the vision back about now," Buck said.

JD pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and commented loudly, "I think I'm getting the vision back."

"We'll work on hearing next." Buck slung an arm over his friend's shoulder and guided him toward the door.

JD's legs suddenly went stiff and a blank expression took over his features. Buck followed his gaze and saw the laptop monitor—its screen shattered by a bullet hole through the center. Tightening his hold, Buck moved JD from the room.

The hangar was alive with activity. FBI laid out instructions, with DEA and ATF assisting with photographing, video-taping and cataloging.

JD's hearing began to clear as they neared Ezra. The other agent lay on the floor, knees bent and left arm clutched protectively to his chest. Josiah and Vin were crouched on either side, by Ezra's head. The tie was off his hand, exposing the fingers, and JD saw the piece of expensive fabric in Vin's grasp. It seemed like a modern moving sculpture that represented the two men—gray and plum striped silk ebbed and flowed around well-worn black leather fingerless gloves as Vin absently worked the fabric in his hands.

A tactical EMT kneeled beside Ezra. The southerner's eyes were closed and JD thought his skin looked a shade on the gray side.

"I do _not_ need you right now," Ezra said to the EMT. "_You_ need to just go away."

JD could see very faint tremors waving sporadically through his friend's frame. Out of the corner of his eye, JD saw Chris approaching but a voice from across the room called for his attention.

"Agent Larabee, we need you to-"

Without turning around, Chris cut them off with a raised hand. "It can wait."

Meanwhile, the EMT was trying again. "Agent Standish, you have a lot of swelling there-"

Chris stopped behind the medic, clamped a hand onto the back neckline of his tactical vest and lifted him to his feet. "You can wait too," he said, flatly. He didn't look at the other agent, just moved him to the side and pointed toward an empty space. "I recommend over there." The cold energy radiating off Chris was more than enough to clear the man away.

Chris took the EMT's place but did not say anything, just studied his agent for a minute. Ezra's breathing was soft and shallow and he still had not opened his eyes. JD made a move forward but Buck's grip on his shoulder tightened and when JD looked at him, Buck made a miniscule shake of his head. Chris sighed and it seemed purposefully loud.

"This isn't exactly the best place for you, Standish."

A weary laugh was the first reply. "I believe there is no doubt about that, Mr. Larabee."

"Well then, since we're in agreement, I think it's time you let the EMT get that hand taken care of. Otherwise, me and the boys and gonna have to strap you to a backboard and carry you out."

"No," JD stated.

Chris looked at his youngest agent, brows raised as if to say, _"Oh, really?"_ Then he showed the barest hint of a smile and indicated with a small gesture for him to continue.

JD swallowed down apprehension and stepped away from Buck to match Chris's level on Ezra's other side. But rather than address the team leader, he looked at Ezra. "Because we are walking out of this."

Ezra's eyes opened, staring unfocused at the high ceiling.

JD repeated himself, enunciating each word. "We are walking out of this."

Finally, Ezra's gaze moved to the young man beside him. An expression akin to an apologetic smile flitted across his face and in a voice barely above a whisper he answered, "Yes we are."

JD looked over his shoulder at the EMT. "We'll be outside in a sec." Then, adjusting his position to support Ezra's weight, he helped him stand.

Their teammates hung back, seeming to understand that passing through the threshold of the hangar was something the two agents needed to do on their own. A thought struck Vin and he glanced around at the remaining men.

"Anybody call Nate yet?"

…

For once, JD didn't mind the mother hen. Despite making a beeline for the locker room on the sublevel of the federal building, Chris's team—sans Nathan and Ezra—were barraged with applause and back slaps from any agent who had heard about the arrests.

Buck's gregarious manner became even bigger than normal. With hands up, as if to adoring fans, he drew attention to himself. "Thank you. It's about time ya'll recognize the handsome specimen that has walked amongst you for so long."

JD used the distraction to slip along the fringes and escape into the cool emptiness of the locker room. Seconds later, the rest of the team filed in, savoring the quiet sterility as they started to strip off their tactical gear.

"Well, it's about time." Nathan sat on a bench amongst the lockers, arms crossed. "Vin called an hour and a half ago saying ya'll were on your way back. You get lost or somethin'?"

Chris eyed his agent. "There will be no jokes about getting lost." With a heavy exhale, he dropped onto the bench beside Nathan and began unlacing his boots when, from somewhere on his body, a phone rang. "Aw, c'mon." He patted his numerous pockets until finally a thigh pocket rewarded him.

"Larabee." He dropped his forearms onto his knees and rubbed his free hand through sweat-dirty hair. "Yes sir, we just got here…Uh, no, sir, in the locker room." He moved his hand to his face and massaged his eyes. "No, actually, I was just about to take one….Yes, sir, on my way…G'bye, sir."

He stuffed the phone into the first pocket his hand located and pushed himself to his feet. "I'm apparently already late for the debriefing." A multi-agency bust this big had more than a few directors, from all three involved branches, interested in the details. He looked at his team. "Hit the showers and then come on up." The higher-ups could ride roughshod over him but if they questioned the late arrival of his men they would be receiving a few choice words from the Larabee Dictionary of Back the Fuck Off.

As he headed for the door, he briefly laid a hand on JD's shoulder. "You told Ezra you'd get him at the ER?"

"Yeah. Said I'd drop him at his condo and bring the Jag back to our place and me and Buck would get it over to him tomorrow."

While at the hangar, Chris had had Josiah keeping an eye on Ezra and JD. The profiler reported back subdued demeanors and a, most likely subconscious, tendency to stay close to one other until Ezra had finally been taken to the hospital.

JD checked his watch. "It's gotta be about two hours since he got there…."

"It's the ER," Nathan reminded. "Chances are he won't even be seen till he's been there three. JD, I can take the Jag over there and-"

"No, I got it," JD blurted. He seemed to realize the response was a bit too pronounced and added more casually, "I told him I'd be there." Then he added, "Anyway, we all know how you drive."

Ezra once said he could not understand how such a God-fearing man could be such a demon behind the wheel. Nathan raised his hand. "Anybody who hasn't gotten pulled over for a traffic violation this year put your hand up. And yes, Josiah, the stop you got for driving too slow counts."

"You've just been lucky," Buck told Nathan.

"Being lucky ain't a bad thing, Buck," Chris said. "Just as long as you have it when it counts."

"Amen to that, brother," added Josiah.

Chris caught JD's eye. "Come on upstairs for a preliminary debrief, and then you can head out. I'll make sure they keep your part of it short. 'Sides, if Ezra thinks he's waited too long at the hospital he'll demand a chopper ride _home_ too."

JD nodded and headed to his locker to grab the spare set of clothes he kept there. Across the row, Vin had stripped off his black t-shirt and was loosening his hair from its ponytail. "Dang, Chris, next time I take a hit on a case I wanna be airlifted out."

"Well, Tanner, if an FBI air support unit is already scrambled and one of their agents finagles it, you have my permission. Otherwise, you pay for it yourself." He shuffled toward the door. "Make it quick, ladies. The sooner you're up there, the sooner you can leave."

Nathan stood. "I'm right behind ya, Chris." He moved to leave but paused beside JD. The medic in him noted the tired eyes and the fatigued stance. The friend in him just saw a teammate in one piece. The two agents shared a long look and, despite JD being nearly four inches shorter, Nathan felt like he was met with an even gaze. He shook his head and a wide smile appeared. Dropping his hands onto JD's shoulders, he pulled his friend in for a quick hug, as if he couldn't believe the young man was really there.

"That was one for the books, JD."

JD smiled back, weary. "Thanks for being on the other end."

Nathan nodded. "Always will be." He headed to the door, calling over his shoulder as he left. "Supper, Saturday, my place. Otherwise, there's gonna be-" Four voices shouted with him, "Big, big trouble."

…

Chris negotiated a break in the debriefing immediately after JD detailed his side of the afternoon's events. The young agent had displayed virtually no emotion as he had filled in the details. His teammates, however, were more than aware of the unnaturalness of that. Team Seven debriefs often consisted of their leader repeatedly reining in adrenaline-high Buck and JD.

Chris caught up to JD as he stood at his desk, shutting down his computer. "Agent Desmon is recommending you for an FBI Directors Award for Excellence."

JD looked at Chris, surprised and flattered. "I didn't think Fibbies could be cool. Too bad Ez wasn't under Tyler back then…."

"If he had been, I probably wouldn't have been able to get him for this group."

"Wait," JD said suddenly. "Ezra too, right? The Directors Award? I couldn't have…I mean, if he hadn't—"

Chris tried to suppress a grin. "Him too."

"Good." JD nodded his approval but paused, distracted by a single piece of paper wadded up in the bottom of his recycle bin. Something drew him to it and he retrieved the paper and smoothed it out.

Chris could tell it was a cartoon sketch, clearly one of Nathan's, but from his angle the details were unclear. "What's that?"

JD laid it on his desk and smoothed it out more, careful not to tear it. He stayed focused on the drawing as he answered. "Maybe a reminder…it's easy to have luck if you've got skill backing you up."

A strong paternal feeling enveloped Chris and he rested a hand on the back of JD's neck. The youth's long hair was still damp from his shower, and the nape of his t-shirt had soaked up much of the moisture from the ends of his hair. Despite as mentally and physically spent as Chris felt, he could only imagine the fumes JD must be running on. "Damn proud of you, Agent Dunne." He nodded toward the elevators. "You best get going."

JD looked toward the number of suited individuals hanging around the large conference room. "I don't think I've ever seen even half of them."

"Yeah, you probably won't see them again till the next big bust."

"How much longer do you guys have to be here?"

"We'll get back in there in about five minutes. The rest of the team probably has another hour or two depending on how detailed the powers that be want to get."

Buck came from the breakroom with a steaming cup of coffee and made a beeline for his partner. "You got your wallet?"

"Huh?" JD's brow furrowed as he felt for, and found, a wallet in his back pocket. Then the truth hit him. "Oh." He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and retrieved his real wallet while tossing the billfold for JD Donovan unceremoniously in its place. The drawer banged loudly as he pushed it shut.

"You sure you're good to drive?" Buck asked. " 'Cause I can probably—" He stopped himself, remembering how his concern had come across just the previous day.

JD seemed to understand but didn't take offense. "I'm good, Buck. Really. Just tired." He brushed his bangs away from his face and hitched a thumb towards the elevators. "Well, I better head to the ER."

"Yeah," Buck agreed. He scooped up JD's gray plaid newspaper boy cap from the corner of his desk where the youth had tossed it earlier. With the hand not hampered by a mug, he slipped the hat on his partner's head so the brim faced backward. "Make sure you stop and get something to eat."

"I will."

"And no Red Bull. You should get some sleep as soon as you get home."

JD gave Chris a look but the team leader backed his old friend. "He's right, kid. I'd gladly be heading home to my bed right now if I could."

The younger agent shook his head and turned to leave. "You old guys…" he said as he retreated.

"And no Monster, either," Buck called out.

JD just raised one hand in the air and made a "chatty mouth" motion. Buck took a sip of coffee and gave Chris a sideways glance. "Old guys. What the hell does he know? We can still drink him under the table." He headed to the conference room, continuing to talk. "Shoot, we was raisin' hell when he was still calling it h-e-double-toothpicks."

Josiah stepped up next to Chris and they watched JD until he disappeared into the elevator. "Your take?" Chris asked.

"We are old." A flat look from Chris encouraged him to give the real answer to the question. "It may not seem like much but the symbolism of them walking out of that hangar on their own…it gave back any power Vargas tried to take away."

"That demon thing you were talking about-"

"Le Démon Taillant."

"Yeah. That story ever mention anybody that beat it?"

"Absolutely. You just had to know how."

"And how was that?"

"If a man traveled with a trusted companion, they could watch each other's backs. If the demon leapt upon one, the other man could attack while it was distracted; pulling it off his friend and decapitating it to assure that it stayed dead."

Chris nodded. "Seems like a sound plan."

"It's also said you could carry twenty-seven braids of garlic and stuff the bulbs in the demon's mouth one at a time as he tried to attack."

Chris cocked his head and made a dismissive clicking sound. "I'm more of a 'cut the head off' kinda guy."

"I can see that about you."

...

Final part next...


	12. Chapter 12

**PART 12**

Here's the final part. It's longer than the others but it's kind of the epilogue and it didn't seem to make sense to split it up. Thank you all again for the warm welcome back. Oh, and I remember the other thing I wanted to pimp. An old story by Shawna, "Rough Beginnings". If you search the interwebz you can find it. I highly recommend it. She came up with Ezra's townhome.

...

Ezra dropped into the passenger seat of the Jaguar, tossed his suit jacket in the back, and pulled the door closed. JD took one look at the black cast encasing his friend's hand and wrist and told him what he thought. "You know this just means Buck will get a pen with metallic ink…probably gold, to make it extra gaudy."

Ezra's expression indicated that he really had not thought of that—he had truly believed his choice of color meant he would escape the anticipated assault on his cast by Buck and Vin. He dropped his head back against the headrest. "I can't win."

JD put the car in gear and patted Ezra's leg. "He's got four years on you. Experience counts."

…

Except for a background of the cd in the player—"The Fabulous Johnny Cash"—the ride to Ezra's was quiet. JD would occasionally glance at his friend but usually just caught him with eyes closed, lips slightly moving along with the lyrics.

Once at the condo, JD led the way—opening the door, hanging Ezra's suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs at the antique dining table and emptying the white plastic hospital bag that contained care sheets for a cast and a prescribed bottle of pain-killers.

Ezra stood in his kitchen, looking around with a dazed expression. Suddenly, he turned and headed for his room. "I'm going to take a shower. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Dunne. I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow."

JD was right on his friend's heels. He was pretty sure he was witnessing exhaustion mixed with a 5-500 mg dose of Vicodin. "Whoa, whoa, hold up, Ez. Take your arm outta your sleeve first."

"What?"

"_Maybe even a 10-500 dose,"_ JD thought, seeing the confused expression on the other man's face. "Your cast. Ya can't get it wet."

Ezra stared at his hand for several seconds before seeming to agree. He struggled against plaster-trapped fingers to undo the buttons of his shirt. JD grabbed up a bagged newspaper on the kitchen island, pulled off the rubber band sealing it closed and dumped the paper on the counter.

"Lemme see." Ezra stuck his arm out and JD wrapped and sealed it the best he could with the plastic bag and rubber band. " 'k, you're good."

Several moments later, as JD assessed what food the cupboards and refrigerator contained, he heard the water in the shower turn on. Several moments after that he heard the unmistakable sound of one, possibly two, dense plastic containers hitting the bathtub floor and Ezra's muffled voice.

"How do they expect anyone to function like this?!"

…

Ezra never ceased to be amazed at the therapy provided by 69,000 loops per square yard of Turkish cotton when applied in bathrobe form. He pulled the belt of his dark blue robe tighter and wandered to the kitchen. While he did not relish the idea of being alone, he certainly could not have expected JD to want to…

"Hey Ez, perfect timing." JD stood at the stove, adding olive oil to a pot of something before stirring it with a long-handled wooden spoon.

Ezra was taken aback. "You're still here." The look he received had him immediately clarifying. "No, no. I meant, I…I just assumed that you would have wanted to go-"

"Grab something out?" JD said, purposefully preventing Ezra from finishing the thought. "Nah, me and Casey are experts at this one. I figured you hadn't eaten much other than that protein bar that Josiah gave you. This was easy to throw together before I took off. Sit."

Ezra obeyed, easing onto one of the high bar stools at the island counter. JD scooped some farfalle in a bowl, topped it with grated parmesan and put it in front of Ezra. He served himself and grabbed up the remaining fork on the island. "Pasta with basil and sundried tomatoes tossed with garlic sautéed in a white wine reduction."

"My word, isn't that just positively 'Top Chef' worthy."

JD spoke around a mouthful of pasta. "It's more impressive than it sounds. Casey and I love cooking together but we really suck at it. Did you know that once an artichoke catches fire it's a bitch to put out?"

"I did not know that."

"She and I have done this recipe about a bajillion times, so it's finally good."

Ezra swallowed his second bite. "I would agree with that."

A moment passed in silence before JD noticed Ezra with a distracted look on his face while glancing around the room. "Damn," the southerner murmured. "I think I left my jacket at the ER."

"Um, you don't remember me carrying it in and hanging it on the back of the chair?"

Ezra's brow furrowed and he looked at the chair JD had pointed to. "I don't mean to sound more unbalanced than I'm already feelin', but there is no jacket on that chair."

JD smiled. "I put it in the Jag. I figured I'd be going past your dry cleaner so I could drop it off. Got the pants too. Hope that wasn't weird, getting 'em off your bed while you were in the shower. Oh, and your shirt is soaking." He pointed his fork toward the smaller section of the two-basin sink. "An hour in cold water with a cup of salt should get out any…" he stopped before he said the word blood. _Detective Hilliard's blood. _"…stains. If that doesn't work we can try a little hydrogen peroxide."

Ezra's brows rose. "Your Ms. Wells may yet break you of bad habits instilled by Buck."

"Casey?" JD's laugh nearly forced pasta from his mouth. "The girl can scale and gut a fish but I had to show her how to change the belt on the vacuum cleaner. Who doesn't know how to do that?"

"_Vacuum cleaners have belts?"_ thought Ezra.

JD misunderstood the other man's lack of reply. He focused on his food and showed a small shrug. "In the summer I'd help my mom. The more places she cleaned the more she got paid. If she could bring in more money during the summer it made November and December easier for us. Around the holidays, people often cut out 'extras' since they're spending on other stuff."

Ezra looked around the kitchen and noticed there was very little indication that a meal had been cooked. If it had been Buck, there would be sun-dried tomatoes stuck to the curtains…in the living room. "How is it that you can fix a meal and leave virtually no trace, yet you live at the CDC?"

The first time Ezra had seen the condition of the two-bedroom loft apartment Buck and JD shared, he called it the Center for Disease Control. The nickname stuck and now there were even times when the roommates used the expression themselves.

JD smiled. "As a kid I took care of our apartment. I figured the last thing ma wanted to do after getting home was more cleaning."

Ezra affected a bewildered expression and replied slowly. "A mother who engages in manual labor? I don't believe I'm familiar with this."

JD absently stabbed at a couple of pieces of pasta. "I dunno, maybe being with Buck is like…a kind of freedom, like being a kid. Or what being a kid should be. Ya know?" He looked at Ezra as if searching for agreement.

The southerner returned JD's gaze just for a second before focusing on his food. He answered with a soft, sincere tone. "Yes, quite."

JD knew enough of Ezra's background to understand that the southerner had more than a fleeting idea of what it meant to have to grow up fast. He moved to the stove for a second helping. "You want more?"

"No. Thank you. You go ahead, this will be enough for me." He took up his bowl, carefully balancing it on the inside of his cast-wrapped forearm, and wandered to the cordless phone unit on one end of the kitchen counter. The flashing number one on the answering machine stared at Ezra until he pressed the button that allowed the message to play.

"_Hello, darlin', it's Mother."_

Ezra rolled his eyes and glanced at JD. "She says that every time she leaves a message. As if she thinks suddenly one day I'm goin' to forget the sound of her voice and wonder who the hell is callin' me."

He took a bite of food and tuned back in to the recording as the genteel, feminine drawl continued, each self-pronoun coming out as 'Ah' rather than 'I'.

"_I'm goin' to be in Denver next weekend and hoped we could get together for brunch on Sunday. I had such a lovely time at the Brown Palace when you and I were there last time. Of course, I know you're probably busy…"_

Ezra repeated his earlier exasperated gesture and JD couldn't help but smile.

"…_but it has been ages."_

"It's been six weeks," Ezra said to the machine.

"_You'll call and let me know, won't you? Love you, darlin', bye-bye. Call me."_

He hit the delete button and looked at the clock on the microwave. It would be too late to call New York even if he did have the energy. Scooping the rest of the pasta into his mouth he carried the bowl to the dishwasher as JD opened the door and slid out the bottom rack. When JD started to hand wash the sauté pan he had used, Ezra tried to stop him.

"Leave that. As cook, you are allowed to call in the not-cleanin' card." He left off the words, _"You're not required to play babysitter."_

JD gave his friend an exasperated look. "Am I gonna have to pin a note to your cast that says, 'Don't get this wet'? You're not washing this pan."

"Mr. Dunne, in case it escaped your notice, I did manage to survive for many years on my own."

JD was focused back on the pan. "Yeah, well, in case it escaped your notice, you're not on your own now."

The double meaning did not escape Ezra's tired brain. If anything, it added an element of calm that the Vicodin could not. "Well then, as I can assume workin' on a laptop is permitted within the confines of cast-wearin', I'll just be gettin' mine."

"You're allowed to do that," JD answered, with mock authority.

There was an easy synchronicity to their movements. Ezra set up his laptop on the dining room table while JD finished cleaning up the kitchen. When JD began to rinse Ezra's shirt in the sink, the southerner interrupted him.

"JD, that really isn't-"

The other man looked over his shoulder. "Whad ar' you, soft?" He heard his own accent taking over and he paused before slowly enunciating the rest of his answer. "And how are you going to wring it out with one hand since the other's not…supposed…to get…wet?"

Ezra watched his friend work on the shirt for a moment when the realization struck him. He focused on his computer screen before providing an answer to the question that JD probably was not even conscious of wanting an answer to. "The sheets for the sofa bed are in the closet." He knew that JD knew which one.

JD didn't turn around but there was a brief pause in his rinsing of the shirt, and then he answered with a single word. "Thanks."

Ezra noticed JD's body language relax, the wringing out of the shirt became less vigorous. Not much later, JD stood, looking around the kitchen. "Have you seen my phone?"

A cursory glance around nearby surfaces prompted Ezra to nod toward the cordless phone. "Feel free to use that one, if you wish." He continued checking his email as JD scooped up the handset and dialed.

"Hey, it's me. I'm at Ezra's. I'm pretty beat and don't feel like driving home so I'm just gonna crash here. Casey's off tomorrow so I should be able to get her to pick me up. Talk later."

A moment later, JD was back at the sink and finished wringing out the dress shirt. "I'm gonna hang this in the laundry room."

Without looking away from his monitor, Ezra spoke again. "Feel free to take any of the t-shirts that are on the dryer. And there is a pair of Vin's sweats there also."

JD showed a wince. "Oh…from the thing with the-."

"Yes." The corners of Ezra's mouth turned down slightly. "The pizza delivery man incident…which I believe we all agreed would never be mentioned again."

"Right," JD said, with a nod.

Ezra did not bother trying to use two hands to type. He rested his left on his lap and carefully typed out an e-mail.

_Dear Mother,_

_I apologize for missing your call earlier this evening. _

He paused at what to say next. The truth was out of the question. It did not seem appropriate to write, "Sorry I wasn't home—my friend JD and I were desperately trying to stay alive". He decided to avoid the work issue entirely and simply lied.

_I've been considering purchasing a new computer and JD was gracious enough to go with me this afternoon as a consultant. The boy certainly has an impressive amount of knowledge. I consider myself quite lucky to have friends such as him._

Ezra paused at the idea of how lucky he truly was. That afternoon, the three bodies in the hangar easily could have been five. He typed out the remainder of the brief e-mail with honest sincerity.

_I would be delighted to see you next Sunday. I know we haven't had the chance recently to see as much of each other as we would like, but always know you are in my thoughts._

_I'll call you tomorrow afternoon._

_Much love,_

_Ezra_

JD padded, barefoot, back into the kitchen dressed in a well-worn Colorado Law Enforcement Youth Athletic Association t-shirt and a pair of gray sweats. While the shirt fit a little wide in the shoulders and the sweats bunched a bit at the ankles with extra length, he wore them with a comfort as if they were his own. The phone began ringing and he exchanged a look with Ezra. They spoke at the same time.

"Buck."

Ezra was already halfway to the phone and waved JD off. The southerner answered and JD noted the effects of tiredness and painkillers as his friend's accent rolled out thicker than usual.

"Good evenin', Mr. Wilmin'ton." He was quiet as Buck replied and checked up on him. "…I' been worse… why yes, as a matter a' fact he is." With a slight grin, he passed the cordless handset to JD.

"Hey, Buck… uh, no, that's fine, go ahead… No, you don't have to. I told you, I'll call Casey…'k, bye."

JD hung up the phone bearing a puzzled expression. "He wanted to know if he could eat my leftover Chinese after he got home. Sounded like he was at the Saloon." He shook his head. "Like food being mine has ever stopped him before from eating it."

He wandered to the sofa and scooped up the television remote. Ezra couldn't help but smile inwardly. JD's intelligence took up most of the young man's cerebral space. As such, there was not much room left for the workings of subtle things and worldliness. JD had been genuinely unaware that Buck's reason for calling had nothing to do with food.

The day had taken a heavy toll on all of Team Seven. Buck simply needed to connect on some level with his partner. Ezra felt a brief pang of regret. A part of him envied the brother-like friendship Buck and JD shared. Having someone stick close when things were rough seemed to be a rare commodity in today's world.

"Hey, the Stooges are on."

The voice from the other room hit Ezra with a welcome realization—someone had chosen to stick close to him tonight. He and JD had walked out of the impossible that afternoon. And as their minds processed the events, their psyches sought out the tool best suited to the task – each other.

The phone rang again and Ezra answered without bothering to check the caller ID. "Yes, Buck?...Oh, good evenin', Mr. Larabee….yes, JD did tell me to call you after I-…Well, now, they did give me Vicodin, Chris. I confess, it has made me rather discombobulated; however, I was-…Shutting up, sir…They put a cast on it, should be off in three to six weeks and then p.t. after that…Black… I thought you'd approve…Ah yes, JD did mention that little downside. Perhaps if I keep my overcoat on for the next month, the terrible twosome won't notice…."

JD looked at his friend and smiled wickedly. Ezra didn't stand a chance.

"…Oh, well, thank you, sir. But I do consider it a joint effort." He looked at JD. "…I will. Thank you, Chris, you too. 'Night."

…

In the emptiness of the ATF office, Chris hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, releasing a heavy sigh while closing his eyes and dropping his head back into the confines of the leather padding. A moment later, a voice brought him back to the real world.

"Hey, cowboy." Vin leaned in the doorway.

Chris rubbed his eyes while responding, "Ya know, Tanner, I think I can say without exaggeration, it has been a long, goddamned day."

"I hear ya, pard." He moved into the room and sat in one of the chairs in front of Chris's desk.

"What are you still doing here?" Chris asked.

Vin shrugged and his mouth twisted a little in a resigned manner. "Report."

Chris nodded. If he had given it any thought he would have realized that. Vin nearly always started his first but nearly always submitted his last.

"How ya doin'?" Vin asked. A look of faint surprise brushed across Chris's face but the Texan just shrugged. "I reckoned nobody else had asked you that yet."

Chris pointed at the name plate on his desk that bore his title, Special Agent in Charge. "The S.A.C. part means I'm the one who asks everybody else that."

Vin nodded and made a small sound as if contemplating that rule, and then totally ignored it. "So, how ya doin'?" The tiniest bit of mischievous smile played around the corners of his mouth.

"We're all still here and we got the bad guys. To me, that's a win." He watched Vin nod again and then open his mouth but Chris knew what he was about to ask and cut him off. "I'm tired. I'm hungry. And I'm pretty sure I don't smell so good."

"Yeah, I wasn't gonna mention that. Ya shoulda hit the showers after the debrief."

With a small wave at the thick files stacked on his desk, Chris answered. "I've got about three more hours of this stuff before I can even think about going home."

Vin pursed his lips a bit and nodded while looking over the files. "Ya know, all this stuff ain't goin' anywhere. But the booze over at the Saloon is probably disappearing pretty fast."

Chris ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Everybody else over there?"

"Yep. Tyler's crew and some of the locals he used today; the chopper crew too. Rafe and Marco. I think a couple of the DEA boys that were in the other Qwest truck—Selo and that tall guy, Massey? Nathan was plannin' on stoppin' at the smoke shop on his way over there."

"Nice," Chris said. Their teammate's habit of splurging on several fine cigars after a successful bust was always something Chris looked forward to. _"Successful bust,"_ he thought. He picked up one of the FBI's thick manila folders on Vargas and flipped through it a bit before tossing it back onto the desk.

"It _is_ a win, ya know." Vin seemed to know what his friend was thinking.

Disgust colored the team leader's features. "My head should have been on a fuckin' platter for this one," he snapped. "But the only thing the directors see is Vargas in cuffs. So it's 'Excellent work, Larabee' and 'We've already got our media liaison on this one.' But the truth is, I've got an agent who will be on desk duty for six weeks and another one who-"

"Who did what he was trained to do—handle the situation."

"It was a bullshit situation from the beginning," Chris retorted. He stabbed one finger into his chest. "And _I_ should have told the directors that, from the beginning. The FBI locals should have been handling this, _not_ my men. There were too many times during this operation when I was reacting to situations. It's my job to be one step ahead. How the fuck can I do that when they come to me with a day's notice, volunteering my team?"

Vin let his friend vent. He knew that worry, fear, and the feeling of being out of control reflected as anger. "You do it by havin' the best men on your team; by makin' sure they're trained and that they don't get complacent. I heard the word 'luck' tossed around a lot over the last week but you and I have both been at this game long enough to know that luck ain't nothin' but a hell of a lot of usin' your skills when you have to."

From his pocket, a small 'ping' signaled a text. He stood and stretched. "Probably Buck." He fished out the phone and sent a reply before looking at his friend. "When you're done, c'mon over. We plan on gettin' as many rounds out of the Fibbies as possible."

Chris sighed and gave his desktop a cursory glance. "It _would_ probably be in the best interest of cross-bureau relations, wouldn't it?"

"I'm sure if you check that S.A.C. job description, it's in there." He started to leave but stopped at the door. "Hey, how's Ezra?"

Chris seemed thrown by the non-sequitur but quickly recovered. He had been off the phone before Vin had come in but it wasn't a surprise that the Texan knew to whom who he had been talking. The man's talent for observing situations and reading people was nearly as good as Ezra's. The undercover agent only had an edge because of an upbringing of grifting and a career where his life depended on correct assumptions and interpreting body language. For Vin, it was simply an innate ability.

"Sounded tired." The team had long since learned to use the heaviness of Ezra's accent as a gauge to his physical condition. Chris grinned. "He's got a cast."

Vin returned the expression. "What color?"

"Black."

A thoughtful look passed over Vin's face. "I'll bet gold glitter would show up real well on that."

Chris stood and shut down his computer. "I'm hitting the showers. I didn't hear that comment and this conversation never took place."

…

JD flicked off the bathroom light, but rather than heading back to the living room he drifted down the hall, past Ezra's office to where a door stood halfway open. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark so when he peered into the master bedroom it was easy for him to make out the comforter-covered form in the bed.

Ezra rested on his right side, facing the door, with a pillow propped under his left arm. Behind him on the nightstand a clock glowed blue, showing the time as 2:18. His breathing was deep and even, and JD was happy to see his friend relaxed.

He made his way to the kitchen; his mind was too restless to let him go back to sleep. Earlier in the evening, JD could think of nothing else than getting home to his own bed. Yet, as he drove Ezra home from the hospital, and the quiet enveloped them, he realized he was not quite up to being around anyone just yet.

He loved Buck like a brother, but the thought of the older man's unreserved concern seemed overwhelming. At the same time, he had not wanted to be alone. His mind had briefly flitted to Casey. But she was on night duty at the veterinary clinic, plus JD knew he would not be able to lie to her when she asked how his day went. He still was not sure how to handle that conversation.

While eating dinner, he had realized he needed to be around someone who understood what he had been through. Someone who did not feel the need to get him to talk about it. JD had appreciated Ezra's far more subtle methods. The southerner knew that JD knew where the bed sheets were kept. It was common knowledge amongst the team thanks to too much beer for one of the Seven during too many poker nights.

So he had casually prepped the sleeper sofa in Ezra's living room and drifted off to sleep while the television had played in the background. A dark dream had jarred him awake and he had felt the need to check on Ezra—had just needed to see him.

Now, in the kitchen, he leaned against the doorframe of the sliding glass door that led to the condo's small backyard and stared out into the night. The dream that had woken him would be waiting if he tried to fall back asleep.

…

In the dark, Ezra turned over in time to see his clock update to the next minute. 2:32. His left shoulder blade was tight from sleeping with his arm on the pillow and his pinkie was again radiating pain up his hand. Tossing the comforter aside, he slid out of the tall antique-style sleigh bed and adjusted the light gray t-shirt that had twisted around his torso.

The shirt had been a peace offering from Nathan many years earlier. A misunderstanding had led to bitter words between the two; their strong personalities didn't always see eye-to-eye, but a mutual respect had overcome their initial rough start.

The graphic on the shirt was a drawing of a winged gargoyle holding a mug of beer. The words 'Arrogant Bastard Ale' and 'Stone Brewing Co.' appeared underneath. Multiple incidents had led to Ezra's teammates teasing him about his taste for the finer things in life with such questions as asking him if he slept in silk pajamas. In actuality, it was usually his Arrogant Bastard t-shirt and a pair of navy blue sweats stamped with the ATF logo in yellow.

In search of the bottle of Vicodin, he headed for the kitchen without turning on any lights as he went. A silhouette at the sliding glass door gave him pause. A full moon poured its glow across everything and lit the features of the young man there in a sad shade of pale blue.

"Hey," Ezra greeted softly.

With a gasp, JD turned in reaction to the voice behind him. Ezra held out open hands in a non-threatening gesture. "It's all right, it's just me." Each man exhaled a soft breath. "Sorry," added the southerner.

JD shook his head. " 's okay."

Ezra moved to the stove to flip on the range light. Even with the additional glow, it took him a second to locate what he sought. He picked up his prescription bottle from the counter and tried several times to open it until JD wordlessly took it from him, retrieved a tablet and resealed the container.

"Thank you," Ezra said. He tossed the pill into his mouth, chasing it with a bit of water cupped in his hand from the faucet.

He turned to see JD watching him. The young man pushed his bangs away from his eyes, opened his mouth as if to say something but closed it again and, with a troubled expression, turned back to stare at the cold world on the other side of the glass door. Finally, he spoke.

"We were… I mean… it…it was close, wasn't it?" It came out as more of a statement than a question.

Ezra swallowed hard. He wanted so desperately to lie to the boy, to protect him, to assure him that it had not been as bad as it had seemed and to let him know that a few weeks from now he will have forgotten the whole thing. But there was no way he could.

"Yes."

In the bluish-gray shadows Ezra could see JD fold his arms tightly across his body and shake his head. "I was so _stupid_."

"What?" Ezra was shocked by the harsh statement.

"I mean, you said it, right? 'JD, never underestimate the enemy'. And I didn't have…" Closing his eyes, JD cut himself off and let his head fall back, as if he was looking Heavenward. "Christ, man…. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

The desperate tone confused Ezra. "What? JD…" He was at a loss for words. He leaned one hip against the kitchen island and ran his uninjured hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. "My God, son…. That is the furthest thing from the truth. No, JD. If you had been stupid…." Emotion grabbed at his throat and Ezra found it hard to acknowledge what could have happened. "If you had been stupid we would not be here."

He could tell his friend was still running in self-defeating circles in his head. It irritated Ezra to think JD could beat himself up over how things had transpired. His voice took on a harsher tone. "Neither you nor I had any control over Dorison and Hilliard doin' what they did. I've worked various forms of u.c. for over ten years and believe me, that is _not_ a regular occurrence, by any stretch of the imagination."

JD turned to face his teammate. "Don't you get it?! I was _lost_! I was shit-scared in there!" The young man's eyes reflected a mixture of anger and fear that could be read even in the low light. His voice was tight with emotion as he continued to vent. "Tonight at the office, when I got on the elevator to leave, I smelled cigarette smoke on some guy and broke out in a cold sweat. I thought I was gonna puke in the fuckin' elevator. What kinda field agent does that?!"

"For God's sake, JD, one who's _human_." Ezra shifted his gaze to an unseen spot by the sink and exhaled a rueful laugh while shaking his head. "If you only knew the amount of times I-" He stopped himself, running the tip of his tongue along his lower lip before looking at his friend. "We'll be on desk duty for probably a week."

He lifted his left hand. "Give or take. Misters Donovan and Simpson may be required for an arraignment to keep up appearances. But that's certainly nothin' ya'll haven't seen me do before." He paused for a second, and then continued.

"There're six to eight appointments with a Bureau psychiatrist. They up'd the number after Waco but most guys still only do four before they start tellin' themselves they're fine and makin' up excuses as to why they're unable to attend their next appointment. Do me a favor, JD…use all of 'em. Nobody has to know besides Chris."

Ezra held the younger man's gaze until he saw a nearly imperceptible nod. Silence settled around them until it seemed to generate a heat of its own. Ezra knew it would encourage talk.

JD finally spoke but now his voice was far more restrained and his eyes were focused downward. "You were depending on me and I was _so_far out of my league…."

"Bullshit," Ezra said. JD looked up, surprised by the bluntness. The southerner crossed to his friend and with two fingers of his right hand lightly tapped the younger man's forehead. "You, JD, are in a league of your own."

He received a confused look but kept speaking. "You remember what else I said? That sometimes bein' the best is no more than bein' able to b.s. long enough to save your skin? What do you think you did? Ian Vargas is intelligent, intuitive, and very experienced… and look where he is tonight. And it sure as hell is not for anything that I did.

"So you were scared. You think I wasn't? But you kept it together. Not only that, but you"—Ezra emphasized his point with an index finger to JD's chest—"are the only member of this team that could have come up with and put into effect the plan that saved our butts."

JD's attempt at a smile was enough for Ezra to believe that a little of the self-imposed guilt had lifted. "I think I could use something to drink. Shall I make it two?"

"Sounds good."

Ezra retrieved a bottle and two short glasses from a high cupboard and placed them on the kitchen island as JD grabbed his own idea of a late-night drink. Ezra stared at the milk and mugs while JD eyed the twenty-year old Oban. Ezra spoke while pouring himself a shot. "That's not quite what I had in mind, but ya'll go right ahead with that warm milk of yours."

"Uh… you're gonna drink that?"

The southerner took a few seconds to answer. "No, I'd planned on pourin' it in the glass and leavin' it in a tree outside for the squirrels. It's very difficult for them to get single malt Scotch now that the cold weather has arrived. Your point, Mr. Dunne?"

"Duh… Vicodin."

"It's one shot." The look on JD's face did not falter and Ezra caved. "Oh, for Heaven's sake." He carefully poured the whiskey back into the bottle while JD returned to preparing milk. He was about to put the mugs in the microwave when Ezra stopped him. "Well, if you're goin' to do it, at least do it right." From the cupboard he retrieved a yellow and red octagon-shaped box with the word _Ibarra_ printed across it, and pulled a small hand-held grater from a drawer.

Ezra's awkward attempt at shaving the chocolate into the mugs lasted all of five seconds before JD took it away from him and finished the job. As they watched the mugs move slowly around on the carousel plate in the microwave, JD spoke.

"I don't know how you do it."

The seriousness in his tone indicated to Ezra exactly what his friend was talking about. "I have good backup."

The answer seemed so matter-of-fact and sincere, as if that was all one needed to deal with unbalanced felons on a regular basis while your nearest support system was most likely sitting in a van a half of a block away. "You're fuckin' nuts."

"I also have an over-developed sense of denial."

…

The light from the television spilled into the living room. JD lay atop the covers on the sofa bed, mug in hand, and Ezra relaxed back in an overstuffed leather chair to the right of the couch. The Three Stooges marathon continued and Larry, Moe and Curly were attempting to convince a wealthy woman that the three of them alone were more than capable of handling the renovation to her mansion dining room.

"Who needs the rest?" demanded Moe. And Curly and Larry answered. "When you've got the best!"

"Ain't that the truth," JD said softly. He raised a loose fist toward Ezra without looking away from the screen and felt a light bump from hardened plaster covering knuckles.

" 'Los Siete Magnificos,'" Ezra murmured.

_Fin_


End file.
